


Arkay's Own

by thelightofmorning



Series: Legacy of the Aurelii [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Ableism, Adultery, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blind Character, Blindness, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Child Abandonment, Child Death, Child Neglect, Class Issues, Corpse Desecration, Disability, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fantastic Racism, Genocide, Graphic Description of Corpses, Harkon Will Die Slowly, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Irkand the Disaster Bisexual, Lesbophobia, Misogyny, Multi, Queerphobia, Religious Conflict, Sex Work, Slavery, Vampires, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:40:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 22,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22474249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/pseuds/thelightofmorning
Summary: It has been peaceful since the defeat of Alduin. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, Vampire Lords have been attacking people in towns all across Skyrim. Fed up and desiring to end the growing vampire menace, Isran reforms the Dawnguard and reaches out to every ally he's ever known... and probably alienated.One of them is Irkand Aurelius, former assassin and now ordained Priest of Arkay who was left blind after the disastrous raid on the Falkreath Sanctuary. He's probably the one person in Tamriel Isran hasn't pissed off yet. He's also one of the few known to have killed a Vampire Lord.The two of them, and an unlikely ally who's been entombed for the past few Eras, are about to educate Harkon and the Clan Volkihar on why trying to destroy the sun wasn't one of their better unlife choices.
Relationships: Isran (Elder Scrolls)/Original Character(s), Sorine Jurard/Serana
Series: Legacy of the Aurelii [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1617004
Comments: 82
Kudos: 44





	1. Recruitment

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, queerphobia, war crimes, imprisonment, misogyny, alcohol use, classism, criminal acts, slavery, ableism, religious conflict, corpse desecration, emotional trauma, child neglect, child abuse and mentions of rape/non-con, genocide, adultery, sex work, torture, child abandonment and child death.

A year had passed since the defeat of Alduin World-Eater and life had been quiet in the small town of Falkreath. Jarl Solaf was a conscientious, open-minded fellow who managed to maintain civil relationships with the neighbouring countries despite being an ardent Stormcloak. The last of the dead from the civil war had been buried and so the constant funeral services were over. Runil had even reacquired his missing journal from Bloated Man’s Grotto after he, Thadgeir, Irkand and the Companion Belrand went there to bury a Blade and capture a child-eating werewolf. It was the kind of peaceful retirement he’d yearned for since the end of the Great War.

So when the exsanguinated corpse of a traveller appeared on the road south to Bruma, he sighed and dispatched Irkand to deal with it. Between his blindness and lifelong training as an assassin, the Redguard had the stomach to deal with the more gruesome corpses that arrived in Falkreath.

That corpse was the first of three in the next week and when an ashen-faced guard reported just what had been done to them beforehand, Runil was wishing he shared Irkand’s iron stomach. But he was an educated mer even before becoming a Priest of Arkay, so he knew immediately what had struck down those three innocent travellers.

“Volkihar vampire,” Irkand said as soon as Runil had described the corpses to him. “I’ve killed one. Balgeir the Bloody, up at Bloodlet Throne, just before the Falkreath Sanctuary raid.”

When ordinary warriors claimed they’d killed one of every danger in Skyrim, Runil took it with a huge grain of salt unless they were a Companion. But Irkand had probably killed one of each undead or type of necromancer in _Tamriel_ , given the twenty-five years he’d spent as Arkay’s Blade and the personal assassin of the High Prelate of Arkay. Even seamed with scars, blinded and with reduced lung capacity after the failed raid on the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary just outside of town, Irkand could still outfight half of Falkreath Hold’s guards. Valga sometimes had him act as an unofficial bouncer when visitors got rowdy at the Deadman’s Drink.

But these days, Runil had him mixing potions, practicing Restoration and helping Kust bury the dead. Irkand was steeped in blood and while there wasn’t enough time in his life to atone for it, Arkay would appreciate him making a good start before he was called home to the Divine.

“This doesn’t sound good,” Kust observed laconically. “Heard rumours of vampire attacks in Whiterun and the Rift.”

“I’ve heard the same, and if they aren’t related, I’m a Benevolent of Mara,” Irkand drawled sardonically. “I hope the High Prelate has the sense to reach out to the Vigilance of Stendarr. It sounds bigger than a random Vampire Lord passing through the Hold.”

Runil had learned to listen to Irkand’s speculations. He had a knack for finding patterns in seeming chaos where others assumed random coincidence.

“Then we should talk to the Jarl,” Runil said with a sigh, rising from his comfortable seat.

Someone else had beaten them to it. A hard-bitten Orc with long grey hair in a top-knot named Durak was talking to Jarl Solaf, speaking of something called ‘the Dawnguard’ and requesting donations to fight the ‘growing vampire menace’.

Solaf rubbed his chin. “You say there’s been attacks in every Hold?”

“Yes,” Durak confirmed. “Fatalities in almost every case. Markarth was the exception.”

“Oh?” the Jarl asked, sitting upright in the Stag Throne.

“The Vampire Lords made the mistake of trying to attack Aurelia Dragonborn and Mother Hamal of the House of Dibella during the Festival of Nocturnal,” drawled Durak. “Between Aurelia’s fire Shout, Mother Hamal’s command of Restoration, and the twenty or so Forsworn witches on the streets, they lasted all of two or three minutes before being turned into ash.”

Irkand gave a raspy laugh. “More fool them.”

“Agreed. I think they’ll learn better next time around.” Durak’s expression was grim as he beheld Runil, Irkand and Kust. “You’re Irkand Aurelius, right?”

“I am. Sadly, I’m not much use as a fighter these days,” Irkand told the Orc.

“You’ve still got more experience with vampires than most of the Dawnguard barring Isran, Celann and myself-“

“Isran? _Isran_ founded the Dawnguard?” Runil interrupted. “The man’s a… a…”

“He’s right,” Durak said flatly. “The first thing the Vampire Lords did on rising from the shadows was to completely obliterate the Hall of the Vigilant.”

“By the gods,” Kust breathed. “All of them?”

“There’s a few at Stendarr’s Beacon near the Morrowind border,” Durak answered with a sigh. “They’re refusing to work with Isran.”

“The Vigilance is to fighting vampires what an Orcish berserker is to warfare,” Irkand said quietly. “Not suited when subtlety and discretion would serve better than the blinding obvious.”

Durak nodded. “That’s why, aside from trying to get Jarl Solaf’s permission to operate in the Hold, I was sent here. Isran needs someone who knows the shadows. He needs the man that necromancers and the undead throughout Tamriel call ‘Death’s Left Hand’.”

“I’m retired,” Irkand told the Orc.

“From fighting, aye.” Durak sighed. “The other option is Florentius Baenius and the last time he spoke to Isran, he told him that… Well, I won’t repeat what he said, but Isran damn near throttled him that day.”

“Florentius is a true prophet of Arkay,” Irkand said softly. “Stendarr holds to a code, even with his enemies. Arkay is far more pragmatic when it comes to those who violate the laws of life and death. You may need us both before this is done.”

“Irkand,” Runil said quietly. “Are you sure?”

The blind Redguard smiled crookedly. “I know Isran. We’ve teamed up before. If he’s openly recruiting allies, it’s worse than we realise. Since you have forsworn your skills at Conjuration…”

Runil sighed. “I can’t stop you. But I hope you understand that you can’t return to the life of an assassin as an ordained priest of Arkay.”

“I know that,” Irkand said testily. “Even if I were willing, the flesh is weak.”

“Even his knowledge of poisons, traps and covert operations will come in handy,” Durak noted. “I’m leaving at dawn tomorrow. Will you be ready?”

Irkand smiled. “I’ll probably wake you up.”


	2. A Prayer for Serenity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism. Cracked Tusk Keep and Bilgegulch Mine are part of the fourth Orsinium in my head-canon. Loads of Orcish head-canon for this story.

Irkand knew that by the absence of pine scent they’d entered the Rift. A year of meditation on his other senses supplementing the blind-fighting training he’d received as a child had… well, he wasn’t a third of what he had been. But he had regained some balance in this sightless world. Enough he could subdue brutish Nords well enough with his hands and feet.

“How far to Fort Dawnguard?” he asked Durak as they entered the aspen forests surrounding Ivarstead, if the shadow looming from the side was from High Hrothgar. The earthy fragrance of leaf-matter and loam, the fresh scent of water, a fugitive hint of honey and musk.

“Two days unless we catch the carriage to Riften,” the Orc rumbled. “We’ll overnight in Ivarstead. I don’t know these lands well enough to travel through it at night with a blind man.”

Irkand tilted his head. “You’re from Orsinium?”

“Aye. Was a border chief up at Bilgegulch Mine until a traitor entered my stronghold, drained my two wives dry, and left their corpses for me when we returned from the hunt.” Durak’s voice was thick with shame. “Malkus gro-Halakar. He was one of King Tarlak’s greatest advisers and court wizard once. Then he became a vampire.”

“Tarlak gro-Mashog of Cracked Tusk Keep?” Irkand asked in surprise.

“Yes. I’m surprised you know who he is.” Durak sighed. “Ghunzul, his eldest, holds the stronghold now while he reigns in Fort Orsinium. I’ve sworn to Malacath I won’t die until I present Malkus’ head to Tarlak or his successor.”

“Ah, the Chaka-Orsum.” Irkand echoed Durak’s sigh. “One of my ancestors was an Orc.”

“Agol gro-Mashog. In the Orcish, Cracked Tusk Keep is Haar Mashog, Mashog-that-is-reborn. We know the Madgoddess is Hunts-Wife to Malacath as she was First-Wife to Martin Septim.” Durak grunted as they walked past a stream. “That blood came out in the Dragonborn, didn’t it?”

“So I’m told.” Irkand tilted his face towards the welcome warmth of the sun. Skyrim was so chilly, even in the spring. “How did our Orcish cousins take the news?”

“Given that she persuaded High Kings Egil and Sura-Mai to recognise us as part of the Free Alliance, we gave her honour as a wisewoman of Dibella-“

“Durak,” Irkand said urgently as the scent of animal musk became stronger, mingling with rotten blood and bone. “Draw your weapon.”

The Orc grunted again and Irkand heard the click of a crossbow being loaded, then the twang of it firing and the sudden hoarse cry of a troll.

“Right between the eyes,” Durak said with satisfaction. “You mind us pausing to skin the bastard? Volkihar like frost magic and troll pelt’s a good remedy for that.”

“You’re the hunter. I know a thing or two about dismembering bodies, so I’ll lend a hand.”

Laden with troll fat and troll hide, they made their way to Ivarstead as the sun westered. There was a bear that objected to them using the road, so Durak took a detour to its den, where they acquired three more pelts and enough honey to please an entire village. The mer could crank, load and fire his crossbow faster than some Bosmer archers Irkand had known in his life.

The Vilemyr Inn was pleased to have guests, judging by the sound of Wilhelm’s voice, and the resident bard Lynly sang a new composition that painted a glowing, if slightly inaccurate, portrait of Aurelia. His niece, for all her admirable qualities, had the singing voice of an off-tune seagull with laryngitis and so she didn’t charm Alduin to sleep with a song.

Next day, after trading the honey to Wilhelm for supplies, they caught the carriage to Riften. Judging by the greetings they received, Durak was known here, if not particularly liked except by Mjoll the Lioness. From the scent of beeswax and expensive perfumes after they entered a building, they’d come to Mistveil Keep.

“Durak,” greeted an imperious-sounding contralto. “What brings you back here so soon?”

“I’m just checking in about how the Rift is coping with the growing vampire menace, Jarl Laila,” Durak said respectfully.

“We’ve killed two already, lad,” answered a roguish tenor, accented with a strong Reacher brogue. “One tried to subvert the Guild.”

“They’re looking for something and damned if we know what it is,” Durak admitted with a heavy sigh. “Have the Guild find out what.”

“Ever heard of the magical word, lad?” asked the brogue’s owner.

“I’ll pay you a thousand septims,” Durak complained.

“I was going to say ‘please’, but a thousand septims will suffice,” drawled the man.

“Brynjolf!” Jarl Laila snapped. “You’re not a Thief anymore.”

“Aye, but I’ll need to deploy agents across the Rift and they’ll need paying,” Brynjolf answered.

“Oh. Of course. Forgive me for assuming the worst of you, my loyal Steward.”

Brynjolf left with them after being dismissed by Laila. “I got word from a source in Hjaalmarch some Volkihar have been seen in the Hold,” the Steward said quietly to Durak. “It might be them hunting the last remnants of the Vigilants. Nasty business, my source said, and he’s a hardened assassin.”

“You can say Rustem,” Irkand said frostily. “I know my brother’s allegiance.”

“And you should be a wee bit more grateful he decided not to kill you, Irkand my lad, given what you did to the Falkreath Sanctuary,” Brynjolf retorted with acid in his voice. “That man helped save the world a few times over, including helping the Dragonborn at the Pale and when the Thalmor attacked the Guild. What did _you_ do, aside from try to blow up some people for trying to kill an Emperor that deserved it?”

“Didn’t know you were a Stormcloak, Brynjolf,” Durak growled.

“I’m not. The days Ulfric and the Stormsword died, I shouted drinks at the Bee and Barb,” Brynjolf drawled. “I’m rather fond of Rustem, in fact, seeing as he avenged my parents. Doesn’t mean I don’t think Mede got what he deserved.”

“You know nothing of what that man endured to keep his province safe,” Irkand whispered. “I pray you can survive the Thalmor’s inevitable onslaught.”

“The goldskins aren’t going up against a bunch of Cyrods, lad. They’ll be going up against twenty thousand Nords and about five thousand witch-warriors of the Reach plus the armies of Hammerfell and Orsinium, if they’re stupid enough to pick a fight,” Brynjolf observed. “But I won’t keep you. Good luck with the vampires. You’ll need it.”

Irkand ground his teeth as the sound of his footsteps faded.

“Don’t worry,” Durak drawled. “He pisses me off too.”

Irkand laughed. He and the Orc had something in common. “Then let’s hasten to Fort Dawnguard. Isran never had much patience.”

“He’s gotten worse over the years,” Durak said.

Worse. Isran had gotten _worse._

_Arkay give me the serenity to accept what can’t be changed, the courage to change what can be changed, the wisdom to know the difference and the self-control to not choke the living shit out of Isran with my bare hands,_ Irkand thought glumly as they walked towards the gate.


	3. Tact and Diplomacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence and fantastic racism.

“You there, boy. Stop skulking in the shadows and step up here. What's your name?”

The bearded Redguard’s voice was deep and gruff, echoing through Fort Dawnguard’s main hall. Agmaer swallowed past the lump in his throat and stepped into the light.

“I'm, uh... my name is Agmaer, sir,” he said nervously, taking strength from the presence of Durak and Irkand at his back. The old Orc had been friendly enough, praising him for seeking out the Dawnguard, and the blind Redguard Priest of Arkay had advised him to armour himself with silver at neck and wrists when facing a vampire.

“Do I look like a "sir" to you, boy? I'm not a soldier, and you're not joining the army,” Isran, the Dawnguard’s leader, said harshly.

“I see Isran is as charming as ever,” Irkand remarked to Durak, earning a laugh from the Orc.

“Yes, si... Isran,” Agmaer said with a gulp.

“Didn't I tell you to step forward? Hmm... Farm boy, eh? What's your weapon?” Isran’s look was scathingly assessing and Agmaer flinched.

“Uh, my weapon? I mostly just use my pa's axe, when wolves are attacking the goats or something.” Agmaer gulped again. Isran was going to throw him out.

“’My pa's axe’, Stendarr preserve us. Don't worry, I think we can make a Dawnguard out of you. Here, take this crossbow and let's see how you shoot,” Isran announced, handing him a similar weapon to the one that hung off Durak’s belt.

“Uh, crossbow? I've never...”

“Yes, a crossbow. Best thing for killing vampires. Just take a few shots at those crates over there. Watch the recoil. Takes some getting used to. That's it. Take a deep breath and let it out as you fire. You'll get the hang of it.” Isran thrust the crossbow into Agmaer’s hands and stalked over to where Durak and Irkand stood.

“If you’re a farmboy, you’ll have good upper body strength. Cock, load and aim for the centre of the mass,” Durak growled, ignoring the Dawnguard’s leader. “When you run out of bolts, retrieve them and start again. Speed will come with practice.”

“Thank you, sir, thank you!” Agmaer babbled as he prepared to obey.

“I’m impressed, Isran. You’ve managed to demonstrate less tact and diplomacy than myself,” Irkand drawled amusedly.

“Irkand fucking Aurelius. I knew it’d take more than your bastard brother and a firebomb to kill you.” Was there genuine warmth in Isran’s voice? No, he had no heart. “How have you been lately?”

“I was living quietly in Falkreath as an ordained Priest of Arkay until a Volkihar vampire paid a visit and Durak found me shortly afterwards,” Irkand answered. “I won’t be able to serve as I once did, Isran. I can handle some muscle-bound moron but vampires are beyond my skillset these days.”

“You can still drill recruits. Durak’s been putting out the call all over Skyrim. Whatever the bloodsuckers are planning, it’s big.” Isran sighed and rested a hand on Irkand’s shoulder.

“I spoke with Brynjolf in Riften. The vampires seem to be focused on Hjaalmarch. He thought it might be them hunting down surviving Vigilants, but I’m not so sure,” Durak told Isran. “I offered him a thousand septims to find out.”

“We’ll have that soon enough. I want to blood the recruits on bandits and necromancers before we get them going after vampires.” When Agmaer glanced over his shoulder, he saw that Irkand had covered Isran’s hand with his own. Maybe it had been warmth in the Dawnguard leader’s voice.

“Before we do even that, I want them at peak fitness,” Irkand announced. “As you said, I can still drill recruits. If Durak acts as my eyes…”

“Celann might be the better option. I need Durak as an emissary to the Jarls.” Isran sighed and squeezed Irkand’s hand. “By Stendarr, I’m glad you’re here, Irkand.”

“I’m glad to be here. I’m used to having a cause and…” Irkand sighed himself. “I discovered Rustem did more to save the world from Alduin than I did. It was… sobering.”

“Your brother’s a dick, but he isn’t a complete asshole,” Isran growled. “Speaking of dragons…?”

“Aurelia Dragonborn said she’d come if the need was great but it would be best to leave the fighting of vampires to those trained to do it in the meantime,” Durak answered. “Jarl Argis has already sent out Forsworn raiders to hunt down and kill any potential vampire covens in his Hold.”

“That’s more than I was expecting from the House of Dibella, to be honest. Most of them stand around and flap their hands uselessly in a fight, even the Order of the Lily,” Isran observed.

“My niece has more steel in her than you give her credit for,” Irkand chided. “She survived Alduin.”

“I don’t doubt it. I’d have liked it if she dropped everything to come here but…” Isran sighed again. “This is bad, Irkand. I feel it in my bones.”

“I agree,” the other Redguard agreed sombrely. “After the massacre at the Hall…”

“I need to go to Haafingar. I’ll see if I can investigate things in Hjaalmarch safely,” Durak promised.

“Thank you,” Isran said.

Agmaer focused on his shooting. He’d be the best crossbowman in Skyrim.

…

Isran poured himself and Irkand some mead after everyone had bedded down for the night. It had been five years since he’d last seen him and the ex-assassin was much changed from his previous self. It wasn’t even in the physical, though the burns and wheezing breath were signs of what he’d endured. There was a thoughtfulness, a sense of… consideration, Isran supposed. Once, Irkand would have taken his orders and cause as gospel and not thought about them. Now, he did so.

“There’s a lot of potential in young Agmaer,” Irkand noted after a sip of mead. “As a farmer, he’s more familiar with blood and violence than your average citizen. Once he sees a vampire or two, he’ll see them as no different to the wolves he drove away with his pa’s axe. Durak tells me he’s a natural with the crossbow too.”

“He needs a spine. I suppose you and Celann will mend that.” Isran drank some mead. “I don’t suppose Arkay’s told you anything?”

“If you want a prophet, you need to speak to Florentius,” was Irkand’s response.

Isran grimaced. “He’s insane.”

“Perhaps. But I can certainly vouch for his connection to Arkay.” Irkand had some more mead. “You need to swallow your pride and reach out to others. Maybe with an apology.”

“I was right!” Isran reminded him.

“Perhaps you were, but you were an utter arsehole about it.” Irkand’s scarred lips twitched with amusement. “Speaking as the paragon of tact and diplomacy myself.”

“You got us both thrown out of the Benevolence of Mara by Maramal because you reminded him he was an idiot,” Isran reminded him.

“He was and he is,” Irkand said defensively. “But I should have been a little more tactful about it.”

Isran laughed. He was sometimes surprised he remembered how to.

Then he grew sombre. “Do you still have the stomach to do what must be done, if it’s as bad as we fear?”

“Of course,” Irkand answered immediately. “But we must be very sure before we act harshly. Remember what happened to the Blades.”


	4. Brother Tolan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, corpse desecration and fantastic racism.

“Celann. I’m surprised you’re working with Isran after the last time I saw you.”

Irkand clasped the Breton’s hand, enjoying the warmth on his face. Spring was further along in Dayspring Canyon than in Falkreath, it seemed, and he relished the lack of chill. Since losing his sight, he had become far more aware of temperature.

“I’m surprised you’re here,” Celann retorted, amusement in his voice. “Seeing as your last conversation with Isran sounded more like a breakup than anything else.”

Irkand grimaced. “I had a rather bad case of head-up-arse then.”

“You must have caught it from Isran.” Celann blew out a forceful breath. “So, do you buy into this vampire conspiracy business?”

“Isran’s right to be paranoid. Two Vampire Lords attempted to slay the Dragonborn openly in the streets of Markarth and there have been attacks all over Skyrim. Three in Falkreath; I helped prepare and inter the bodies. I believe they weren’t just exsanguinated, they were soul trapped.” Irkand sighed. “I didn’t share that knowledge with Runil or the families.”

“Amazing, you’ve developed some tact.” Celann’s words were jocular but his tone was grim.

“I can’t stab many people these days, so I have to watch what I say.” Irkand rubbed the back of his neck. “What brought you back here?”

“I was asked to leave the Reach after a disagreement with a local Hagraven,” Celann admitted. “Suffice to say, most sane people find their traditional funeral rites disgusting.”

“It was one of the compromises, I believe,” Irkand sighed. “The Stormcloaks could hardly preach freedom of religion without giving the Forsworn the same courtesy. So long as it stays in the Hold and among the hill-clans…”

“Well, that explains why I was asked to leave instead of being gutted for my troubles. Molag Bal was haunting a house in Markarth and… well, it cost Brother Tyranus. Poor bastard went mad and had to be put down when he tried to brain the Dragonborn.”

_“What?”_ Irkand yelped.

“Me, Aurelia and Tyranus examined the house for exorcism. Stendarr’s not overly fond of Molag Bal but apparently it’s far more personal when Dibella’s involved. When Molag Bal told us we could only escape if we tried to kill each other… Well, Tyranus snapped.” Celann hawked and spat to the side. “He went after Aurelia because he thought the Dibellan was the weakest of us. Did you know she can breathe fire? Tyranus, suffice to say, was flammable. I had to put him out of his misery and then…”

He paused with the sound of drinking, then a belch. “Your niece tore the door from its hinges with a single Shout. Molag Bal was trying to kill us but she got us out. Then every damn priestess from the Temple walked back into that house and exorcised it with the Sibyl leading the charge. Your niece cleansed every room with that fire Shout and the altar to Molag Bal was reduced to slag, passed nine times through the smelter, and the resulting metal crumbled into rust and dust. Dibellans don’t mess around when it comes to the King of Rape, it seems.”

“Arkay’s mercy,” Irkand breathed.

“I couldn’t get out of the Reach quick enough, honestly,” Celann admitted. “That damn place is so uncanny I almost feel sorry for the vampires if they attack it.”

Irkand shuddered in agreement. Aurelia, it seemed, had become infinitely more dangerous in the past year since Alduin’s demise. Thank the gods she had none of a Dragonborn’s innate desire to conquer or dominate.

“Celann!” called out a Nord man’s voice. “Is that you?”

“Fuck,” Celann muttered, putting a cork in something. “It’s Tolan.”

“Tolan?” Irkand asked.

“Carcette’s senior Curate-Emeritus. In short, someone guaranteed to piss off Isran in about thirty seconds.”

“We need all the muscle we can get. Isran is capable of self-control, if not tact.” Irkand climbed carefully down the stairs in the direction of the voice. “Curate-Emeritus Tolan? I am Brother Irkand of the Order of Arkay.”

“I heard you were dead!” Tolan blurted.

“It was a close thing. We heard about the Hall.” Irkand outstretched his hand.

Tolan shook it. “It isn’t just the Hall. Tyranus in Markarth was killed-“

“By Celann after Tyranus tried to murder the Dragonborn after being driven mad by Molag Bal,” Irkand interrupted, correcting him. “There’s a few of your brethren by Stendarr’s Beacon.”

“I know.” Tolan heaved a heavy sigh. “Is Isran here? I need to speak to him and we might as well get the ‘I told you so’ out of the way.”

Isran was drinking mead by the fire, judging by the warmth of the room and the slurping. He was never a quiet eater. “Why are you here, Tolan? The Vigilants and I were finished with each other a long time ago.”

“You know why I'm here. The Vigilants are under attack everywhere. The vampires are much more dangerous than we believed,” Tolan answered heavily.

“And now you want to come running to safety with the Dawnguard, is that it? I remember Keeper Carcette telling me repeatedly that Fort Dawnguard is a crumbling ruin, not worth the expense and manpower to repair. And now that you've stirred up the vampires against you, you come begging for my pardon?” Isran asked scornfully.

“Isran, Carcette is dead. The Hall of the Vigilants... everyone... they're all dead. You were right, we were wrong. Isn't that enough for you?” Tolan demanded, grief in his voice.

Isran coughed, sounding ashamed. “Yes, well... I never wanted any of this to happen. I tried to warn all of you... I am sorry, you know.”

Irkand guided Tolan to the bench. “Pour him some mead. I have a feeling this won’t be pretty.”

“I’m not allowed to indulge in alcohol,” Tolan said heavily.

“I think Stendarr will forgive you,” Irkand assured him with a roll of his eyes.

It took two flagons of mead for Tolan to speak. “Dimhollow Crypt. Brother Adalvald was sure it held some long lost vampire artefact of some kind. We didn't listen to him any more than we did Isran. He was at the Hall when it was attacked...”

“Where’s Dimhollow Crypt?” Irkand asked in a low, urgent voice. “Hjaalmarch?”

“I… yes.” Tolan’s voice was surprised.

“Stendarr’s mercy, we’ve sent Durak in on his own,” Isran said, concerned.

“I'll go to Dimhollow. It's the least I can do to avenge my fallen comrades,” Tolan said stoutly.

“Tolan, I don't think that's a good idea. You Vigilants were never trained for...” Isran said cautiously.

“I know what you think of us. You think we're soft, that we're cowards. You think our deaths proved our weakness. Stendarr grant that you do not have to face the same test and be found wanting. I'm going to Dimhollow Crypt. Perhaps I can be of some small assistance to you,” Tolan said bitterly.

“No, you aren’t,” Irkand said grimly. “I’m still more than capable of beating the shit out of you, tying you up and delivering you to your brethren at Stendarr’s Beacon. You’re the senior-most cleric of the Vigil in Skyrim. Act like it!”

Isran inhaled shakily. “I never doubted your courage, none of you. I was just worried that you didn’t have the steel it takes to use tactics capable of evening up the fight. I’m sorry I was proven right. I wish I’d never been.”

Irkand squeezed his shoulder. “Do we have a means of sending a message to Durak, to warn him?”

“I’ll bespell a pigeon to find him with a message,” promised Celann. “Durak is… well, he’s a death-sworn berserker of Malacath, so he knows some of the clerical arts.”

“I was never told about this,” Irkand said sourly.

“The last time you bespelled a pigeon, you got the whole flock attacking you because your accuracy with ranged weapons was shit,” Isran said bluntly.

Tolan burst out into a startled laugh. “Truly?”

“Oh yes.” Isran sounded far too cheerful. “So it began when we were tracking a Telboth in Cyrodiil…”

Irkand let him tell the tale. If it saved Tolan’s life, it was worth the embarrassment. Maybe.


	5. The Friendly Neighbourhood Vampire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration.

“This news you have brought to me is grave,” Idgrod Ravencrone said, her eyes distant. “You will take Falion, my court wizard, with you. He’s a Priest of Tu’whacca and familiar with certain Conjuration arts.”

Durak inclined his head. “Have you seen anything, Jarl?”

“Only if you fail. A blood-red dawn will be the least of it.” Idgrod slumped in the Spiral Throne, exhausted. “That which may seem your enemy is not. Even children of the darkness fear what is trying to come into fruition.”

Durak hated vampires almost as much as Isran, but he was also a pragmatist. Malacath only cared for the enemy dying, not how it was killed. If he had to work with a vampire to end this threat Celann had warned him off, then he would. Talking Isran into it would be more difficult.

Falion was a mild-mannered, ordinary-looking Redguard whose robes of a deep night-blue were embroidered with rust-red designs. “I trust you’re not uncomfortable with necromancy?” he asked the Orc. “Killing and then turning these Volkihar against their own kind will make our lives a lot easier.”

“So long as you’re not doing it to me, I don’t give a damn,” Durak said bluntly, earning a laugh from the mage.

“Thank you. That will make my life easier.”

Dimhollow Crypt was set in the mountains that divided Hjaalmarch from Whiterun. “Well, well,” Falion observed as they climbed up the path. “This is said to be the former home of the aptly-named Valerica the Death-Witch. She was the wife and consort of Harkon the Cruel, a former Jarl of Solitude. Some say they are the parents of the Volkihar vampires.”

“So what is this, a holy place for vampires?” Durak asked as he cocked and loaded his crossbow.

“If a vampire could have such a thing, yes.” Falion’s hands glowed briefly as he cast a spell. “Two vampires and a couple death hounds. Do you have any moral objections to stealth?”

“Not if I’m the one doing the ambushing.” Durak raised his crossbow. “I shoot one, you raise ‘em to fight the rest. That’ll give me enough time to destroy the other one. After that, death hounds are nothing.”

“My Orcish friend, you are refreshingly practical. I hope it is a sentiment shared by the rest of your Dawnguard.”

They entered the crypt and events proceeded as planned. Falion raised both vampires to accompany them as they pressed deeper into the tomb. Necromancy usually wasn’t a clerical ability and when Durak made note of this, Falion laughed.

“The Priests of Tu’whacca are not unlike the clerics of Morrowind in some of our observances. We use the power of the ancestors to defend our sacred spaces… and enemies are all fair game. We are simply not allowed to use soul gems upon our people and allies.” Falion was pensive for a moment. “I even know a ritual that can cure vampirism… but that requires a filled black soul gem.”

Durak snorted. “So start soul trapping these Volkihar and keep a few in stock.”

“I will. When fighting monsters, you must be careful not to become one.”

The Volkihar hadn’t sent their best and brightest to Dimhollow Crypt and soon enough, Falion had filled every soul gem in his pockets, black or otherwise. It wasn’t until they’d reached the innermost crypt, lit with an unholy blue-violet flame, that Durak began to worry.

“I'll never tell you anything, vampire. My oath to Stendarr is stronger than any suffering you can inflict on me!” announced a man’s voice, defiant despite exhaustion and pain.

“I believe you, Vigilant. And I don't think you even know what you've found here. So go and meet your beloved Stendarr,” sneered the vampire.

There was a brief scream of pain and a female vampire remarked, “Are you sure that was wise, Lokil? He still might have told us something. We haven't gotten anywhere ourselves with...”

“He knew nothing. He served his purpose by leading us to this place. Now it is up to us to bring Harkon the prize. And we will not return without it. Vingalmo and Orthjolf will make way for me after this,” Lokil said smugly.

“Yes, of course Lokil. Do not forget who brought you news of the Vigilants' discovery,” the female vampire pointed out.

“I never forget who my friends are. Or my enemies,” Lokil promised darkly.

Durak and Falion crept down the path towards the rings of concentric blue-violet fire, watching Lokil and his lady friend trying to move the braziers. It didn’t take a genius to figure out the braziers were the key to unlocking… whatever they were trying to unlock.

“We can’t let them figure it out,” Durak said grimly. “Ready?”

“I am.” Falion’s hands glowed unholy purple.

Lokil, for all his boasting, wasn’t immune to a crossbow and his lady friend was even weaker. The death hounds put up more of a fight, but they fell to their zombified masters. When it was done, Durak hung his crossbow from his belt and went to examine the braziers.

“Be ready,” he advised. “I think we need to unlock this thing… and then destroy it.”

“We shall see,” Falion said quietly.

They unlocked the puzzle and after Falion’s hand was pierced by a spike, the rings fell away to reveal a sarcophagus. Inside the stone coffin was a Nord woman, pale and perfect, wearing a golden scroll-case across her back.

“Well, this is unexpected,” Falion noted as Durak caught the… yeah, she was a vampire. “That’s an Elder Scroll.”

“A vampire buried with an _Elder Scroll_?” Durak yelped.

“Apparently so.” Falion’s smile was crooked. “I only know what it is because Aurelia Dragonborn bears the Dragon one.”

“How appropriate.” Durak stepped away from the vampire as her eyes began to show sense. “Do you reckon this is what Idgrod told us about?”

“Knowing my Jarl, it’s certainly possible.” Falion stepped closer as the vampire rose to her feet. “Greetings, Daughter of Coldharbour. Do you mean us no harm, no harm will be done to you.”

“How generous of you,” remarked the woman sarcastically. “I was expecting a fellow vampire, not… whatever you are.”

“Well, whatever you were expecting, none of us were expecting a vampire with an Elder Scroll that Harkon the Cruel wants,” Falion countered. “I’m Falion, priest of Tu’whacca and court wizard of Hjaalmarch. My Orcish friend is Durak of the Dawnguard.”

“Serana…” The vampire sighed. “All these years and my father won’t let go of this damned prophecy.”

“Prophecy?” Falion asked. “Does it involve a blood-red dawn?”

“Something like that,” Serana admitted. “Look… I don’t know you and I’m not sure I can trust you.”

“The feeling’s mutual, lady,” Durak retorted. “But I think we can both agree that this Harkon sounds like he’s bugfuck nuts and an Elder Scroll should be nowhere near him or where he lives.”

“My father’s insane enough that Sheogorath claimed he was too crazy for him,” Serana confirmed. “I’m guessing you’re some kind of vampire hunter?”

“Aye,” Durak confessed. “I lost my two wives to a traitor-vampire named Malkus.”

“I’m sorry.” She sounded sincere. “I always tried to prey on pirates, necromancers and other undesirables.”

Durak couldn’t help but snort. “So you’re a friendly neighbourhood vampire?”

“I am what I am. I try to cause as little harm as possible with the gifts I… earned.” Serana grimaced. “What year is it?”

“202 of the Fourth Era,” Falion told her. “Or Year 1 of the Fifth Era, depending on whether you consider the death of Alduin and the freeing of Skyrim from the Mede Empire a significant event.”

“Mede Empire? I remember the Reman Empire but…” Serana rubbed her brow. “Wait, _Alduin’s_ dead?!”

“Banished, dead, we’re not sure and Aurelia Dragonborn isn’t talking,” Falion confirmed.

Durak rubbed his chin. “Look, Serana, would you mind staying with Falion for a few days? I need to tell Isran about this and… well, he lost his entire family to worshippers of Molag Bal. He hates vampires. But I think I can talk him around to not shooting you on sight because this is bigger than all of us.”

“It won’t stop him from being an utter asshole,” Falion said dryly. “But that’s an improvement over him not killing you on sight.”

“You want to know something funny?” Durak asked, equally as dryly. “Irkand’s with us.”

“I knew the tales of his demise were greatly exaggerated,” Falion noted.

Serana sighed. “I’ll stay with you for a few days, Falion. I… need to collect myself before I do anything.”

Falion bowed slightly. “It will be my pleasure to host you. I believe my Jarl would like to have a quiet word with you too. Hjaalmarch is plagued with all sorts of bandits and renegade mages, so there should be plenty of prey available.”

“I’m always happy to be of service,” Serana drawled.

Durak surprised himself with a chuckle. “Wish me luck. I only have to deal with two of the most hard-headed idiots in Tamriel.”

“Have fun,” Serana said dryly. “Tell them I promise not to eat them.”

“Irkand’s a priest of Arkay. They do weird things to their blood that kills vampires. I wouldn’t recommend it.” Durak smirked. “As for Isran, he has tattoos at his neck and wrists that are alloyed with silver ink. Every vampire trying to feed on him has lasted just long enough to wish they’d picked someone else.”

Serana snorted. “Wonderful. And they’re the better option than my father. May the old gods have mercy on my soul.”


	6. Trust in the Gods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration. My NPCs have lives, agency and competency of their own, hence the different storylines.

Jarl Idgrod was of Reacher ancestry as she had the dark colouring and fine bones of the Dijkstra marsh-folk Serana’s mother once ruled. Even her name Ravencrone was a reference to the mighty Hagravens that ruled the clans of hill, marsh and forest. Despite what the ‘Stormcloak commander’ Arrald Frozen-Heart thought, Serana rather thought that Idgrod maintained close ties to her hill-kin.

“I appreciate your honesty,” Idgrod finally said after a sip of wine. The seer’s gift debilitated her to some degree, leaving her and her son sickly. “As Falion told you, we _do_ have several locations taken over by bandits and worse with no means of dealing with them. We’re still recovering from an attempted vampire takeover of Morthal over a year ago. If it wasn’t for Aurelia Dragonborn, you’d have come to a town ruled by the undead.”

“You’re taking this rather well,” Serana noted, eyeing the Steward and militia commander.

Aslfur shrugged. “Idgrod can see into the hearts of people. If she doesn’t think you’re a threat to Morthal, I trust her judgement.”

“Agreed,” Arrald said laconically. “If we can ask for the Dark Brotherhood and the Forsworn’s help in clearing out the trash, what’s one more creature of darkness around here? If people wind up dead and drained of blood, you’re the first suspect.”

“Thank you,” Serana said softly. “I… didn’t ask for this, but I’ve learned to live and make the most use of it.”

“If you ever want a cure, I can supply it,” Falion said quietly. “But until we know what Harkon and the Dawnguard are going to do, I’d hold off on it.”

Idgrod leaned forward in her throne. “I’ve sent a message to the Reach and Winterhold. Jarl Argis can consult with the Hags, the Sibyl of Dibella and the Dragonborn while Jarl Bjarni can speak to the College, and both of them are wise enough to not jump to conclusions without accurate information. If there’s word of your father’s damned prophecy, I’ll have it by the time Durak returns. If the Dawnguard won’t help you, I will.”

Arrald grunted. “I might speak to Rustem, with your permission. Who knows what the Dark Brotherhood is aware of?”

“You’re awfully calm about Daedric cultists,” Serana observed.

“We worship the old gods here, girl. Oh, we give the Aedra a nod now and then, but we’ve always honoured Hircine and Sithis too,” Aslfur said bluntly. “Even the Redguard gods have a shrine here tended by Falion.”

Idgrod clasped her hands together. “Feel free to read through my library to catch up with the history you’ve missed. Once it becomes known to the College of Winterhold you know a lot about the old Nord magics, I can promise that Arch-Mage Onmund will gladly welcome you to the faculty. He’s a big practitioner of the Clever Craft, that one, though his magics are sea and sky and snow.”

Serana surprised herself with a smile. “Thank you!”

“I know what Harkon plans is bad, girl. If he succeeds, life everywhere will be threatened,” Idgrod said soberly. “The gods move more than mortals understand and in far subtler ways. Trust in them, if you can’t trust in me, for they are acting in this.”

It was more comforting than Serana realised to hear that.

…

“Am I the only one outraged by this?” Isran demanded of the gathered Dawnguard.

“You’re the only one carrying on like an idiot about it,” Durak growled. “I’d rather have her under our hand, or at least in our reach, than wandering around unprotected with a fucking _Elder Scroll_!”

Isran swore and glanced to Celann, Irkand, Tolan and Agmaer. “I suppose you lot agree with him?”

“I’m not going to throw stones given I carried Goldbrand for two decades,” Irkand noted. “I like it not, but I can also vouch that there are vampires capable of moderating their actions. Better to have an eye on her – Idgrod has a genuine prophetic gift and Falion is a master of his craft – than to drive her away.”

“Better the Daedra you know,” Celann agreed.

Tolan sighed. “I don’t like it either, Isran. But if Celann and Irkand think the situation can be managed, I have to trust their judgement.”

Isran swore again. He wasn’t going to win this one. “Fine. Then I want it to be aware it’s not a friend, it’s a resource, and when this is over it had better get itself cured or I’ll kill it. Understood?”

“Good luck putting all of that into diplomatic language,” Celann drawled to Durak as the Orc nodded decisively.

Isran growled at the Breton, who simply bowed mockingly from his seat.

“We have confirmation that this is bigger than we realise,” Irkand observed. “Isran, we need Sorine Jurard and that troll-tamer.”

“Gunmar,” Durak supplied. “And he’s right, Isran.”

“I know he is, but unlike you, he’s not a completely insufferable prick about it!” snapped Isran.

Agmaer laughed incredulously and even Tolan snorted.

“I believe Sorine’s working with Calcelmo in the Nchuand-Zel excavations,” Irkand continued. “With permission, I’d like to go there myself. I’d very much like to pay my niece a visit while I’m in Markarth.”

“Agmaer, you can go with him,” ordered Isran. “Durak, you’ll be out and about. Gunmar won’t be hard to find; just locate the nearest den of trolls or beasties that need killing.”

“I’ll speak to my fellow Vigilants about this prophecy,” Tolan promised. “Who knows what we may find out.”

“Good. Celann, you can help me clean this place up some more,” Isran ordered.

“Can I take a bath in vitriol instead?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Celann laughed as he left the common room, followed by everyone bar Irkand.

Isran turned his gaze to Irkand. “Do you really believe you can trust this vampire?”

“I believe it to be a case of ‘enemy of my enemy’,” the ex-assassin replied serenely. “Harkon is the proven threat; this Serana will show herself to be ally or secret threat in due course. We can only trust that the gods will send us enough warning either way.”

“I never knew you were one for que cera, cera,” Isran countered.

“There’s much I can’t change now,” Irkand said softly. “I learned my limits after Falkreath Sanctuary.”

Isran grunted. “I can’t live like that. I have to plan for everything.”

“How do you plan for a vampire with an Elder Scroll?”

“Damned if I know, but I’m going to try anyway.”


	7. Dibellan Wisdom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, imprisonment, torture, rape/non-con, war crimes, religious conflict and genocide. Aurelia will have a part to play in the questline during and after Scroll Scouting.

The first thing which struck Irkand as he entered the workroom of the court wizard Calcelmo was the mingled scent of copper, magicka and ink. Two women, one of them with a light clear voice and the other with a deeper, huskier one, were speaking to a youthful Altmer-accented tenor and a gruff baritone of matters too mechanical and arcane for Irkand to understand. “Is Sorine Jurard here?” he asked, calling out over the roar of water somewhere to the left of him.

“I am,” said the soprano. “And you are?”

“Irkand Aurelius, Priest of Arkay and Chaplain to the Dawnguard,” he answered. “Isran sent me here to recruit you.”

“Lorkhan’s bones, I didn’t recognise you!” Sorine exclaimed. “Isran finally pull his head from his arse, huh?”

“That would be a neat trick, as my uncle’s suffered the same affliction from time to time,” observed the contralto.

“Isran’s your uncle?” Sorine asked her.

“No, Irkand is,” Aurelia said dryly.

“Irkand is reasonable compared to Isran, believe me.” Sorine’s tone was fervent. Then it hardened. “Tell Isran to go to Oblivion. I believe that’s what he told me when we stopped working together.”

Irkand inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. “There’s a vampire with an Elder Scroll who’s trying to stop a prophecy that will invoke a blood-red dawn, or something like that.”

“The ‘Tyranny of the Sun’,” Aurelia said grimly. “We Dibellans know it’s as close to holy scripture as certain cults of Molag Bal get.”

“I’ve heard of it as well,” confirmed the older mer. “It was written in the last days of the Falmer civilisation, just before the Dwemer crushed what was left of them into the twisted monstrosities we know today.”

“Well, _shit_. In all my theoretical possibilities, a vampire apocalypse by Elder Scroll wasn’t something I’d considered,” Sorine said with a sigh. “Is Isran more bearable?”

“He hasn’t once thrown anything at anyone in the week and a half I’ve been at Fort Dawnguard,” Irkand assured her. “He’s calling in Gunmar and considering Florentius. The vampire, Serana, is currently in Hjaalmarch under Falion’s eye.”

Aurelia sighed. “If you’re looking for any insight concerning the Elder Scrolls, don’t ask me. Apparently you can’t learn everything about something by sleeping with it.”

The younger mer burst into laughter as even the older one chuckled gruffly.

“It _is_ bad if Isran’s swallowing his damn pride and asking for help,” Sorine said after a snicker. “There’s just one thing we need to do before I can leave, Irkand. I need to find a lost expedition in Nchuand-Zel. I was just preparing to leave when you arrived.”

Irkand sighed. “I’m not what I was, Sorine. Is this truly necessary?”

“Staubin led a twenty-man Synodic research team into a place which had been partially excavated,” the older mer, who had to be Calcelmo, said grimly. “The Quaestor in charge made it out but was promptly killed by a giant spider. This is concerning and potentially dangerous to Markarth.”

“If you wait an hour, I’ll get Cosnach and Vorstag,” Aurelia offered. “They’re sellswords-turned-Knights of the Lily who have some experience with Dwemer ruins.”

“You think three people will be enough to survive a ruin that killed twenty men?” Irkand demanded of her.

“I’ll be going with them. My Thu’um is worth ten soldiers.”

“Like hell you are!” Irkand ordered automatically.

“There is, my uncle, very little that can kill me these days,” Aurelia said softly. “Between Become Ethereal, Fire Breath and Unrelenting Force, I can’t be harmed and I can fight back. I usually need guards to watch my back in between breaths – and Sorine is the master of crossbows. You should feel more pity for the Falmer.”

So Irkand was left to grind his teeth and wait in Calcelmo’s workroom as Aurelia, two rough-sounding ‘Knights’ and Sorine swanned off into Nchuand-Zel. What happened to the focused artist who cared for little beyond her goddess and her work?

It was the next morning when they returned, laden with loot and bad news concerning Staubin, a Falmer infestation, and Dwemer defences that had been activated to deal with the dangers of down below. Irkand, having endured a night on Markarth’s infamous stone beds while listening to drunken Nords at the Liberation Inn by the city gates, wrestled his anger into submission. Once, he could have gone with them and dealt with the problem. Now, he was consigned to the side as others took the risks.

He found Aurelia just before she was going to return to the Temple of Dibella. “I haven’t spoken to you since before all of this happened,” he told her frankly. “You didn’t even stay after I was burned in Falkreath.”

“You know the old stories of Alduin feasting on the souls of heroes?” Aurelia asked in return. “They were true. I saw Delphine get devoured myself. I’m still not even sure how she died.”

Irkand clutched at the stone railing in shock. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.” Aurelia sighed. “Even now, there’s a few dragons who need to learn lessons about their place in the scheme of things. I couldn’t stay until you woke up, I could only do what I could to help Runil and the alchemist heal you. I would have thought you, of all people, would have understood because you could never stay around when I was younger due to your duties.”

Irkand flushed. She was right… and it stung. “Is it true your father helped you?”

“Yes, several times. I got more help from the Thieves’ Guild and the Dark Brotherhood than anyone else excepting the Companions and the Stormcloaks,” Aurelia confirmed softly. “Father is what he is. You are what you are. Mother was what she was. I couldn’t change any of that as a child.”

“Your father murdered Titus Mede!” Irkand hissed.

“Who sent a Penitus Oculatus agent to apprehend me,” Aurelia chided. “The Stormcloaks, for all of their flaws, were the first to commit resources to helping me with the dragons. The Empire dillied, it dallied, and was swept away in the end after a lot of deception and broken promises to the Nords.”

She sighed. “No one has clean hands, not even me. Balgruuf chose to abdicate because he believed I’d thrown my lot in with the Stormcloaks. I released Madanach because the Silver-Bloods framed me for murder. I was the one who helped deliver the evidence Mother had taken contracts out on just about everyone from Ulfric to Cirroc, which led to her being declared nithing and executed. I had to bury her, by the way, because no one else would do it.”

Her hand was warm and dry on his face, her voice filled with infinite compassion. “The world isn’t black and white. My loyalty is to Dibella, as it should be, and the Reach is Her holy land. For the most part, I’m left to my calligraphy and illumination, but sometimes I must be an agent of the goddess too. You know what that’s like, Uncle. You carried Arkay’s light into darker places than other clerics dared.”

Tears trickled down Irkand’s cheek. “It shouldn’t have been you.”

“It had to be me. Anyone else would have used their Thu’um for less than sacred, possibly even selfish, purposes. The Greybeards were right about one thing: ‘Speak only in True Need’.” She touched her forehead to his. “Arkay is the god of birth as well as death, Uncle. Your life hasn’t ended… it has only begun.”

Aurelia stepped back, lowering her hand. “Congratulations about you and Isran. You two are truly suited for each other. Stendarr may teach mercy and Arkay continuation, but love and friendship have their place in the scheme of things too. Never forget that.”

“You’ve grown wise,” Irkand whispered.

“Have you seen the rest of our family? Someone had to.”


	8. Choice It Is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence and fantastic racism.

“Blech, that’s awful,” Serana complained as she lowered the goblet. “It tastes like horkers smell.”

“It’s made from horker blood,” Falion explained as he decanted the rest of the potion. “Failed attempt at a transfusion potion that could replace lost blood, but suitable as a substitute for draining dry everything on the Sea of Ghosts… or any kind of spell that requires copious amounts of spilt blood.”

“Well, aren’t you the humanitarian?” Serana observed, drinking some more of the blood potion.

“I try to do as little harm with my gifts as I can,” Falion said quietly. “I never asked for an affinity for necromancy beyond what is acceptable for a Priest of Tu’whacca, but I have made use of it in a place where your parents soaked the very earth in blood.”

Serana glanced away. “Look… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be lashing out at you.”

“You are temporally displaced because of your several hundred years, minimum, of entombment. You awaken to the possibility of your father destroying the world, a place where you’re nothing but a misty legend, and to a group of people not exactly known for their friendliness towards vampires,” Falion answered sympathetically. “This, of course, would be on top of the traumas you sustained from becoming a Daughter of Coldharbour. While a certain amount of… attitude… can be forgiven, a real attempt at healing should be taken.”

“I’ll worry about it when this is over.” Serana drained the goblet dry. “So I’ve cleared every bandit and necromancer stronghold in Hjaalmarch. What now?”

“We go see if the Jarl’s had any replies to her messages. It’s been a week or so and no one’s ever accused Jarls Argis or Bjarni of being slow to act.” Falion laughed as they left his cottage on the outskirts of Morthal. “Hopefully Isran will have had enough time to throw a temper tantrum and get over himself enough to acknowledge you’d be a priceless ally.”

“I’m a little surprised he hasn’t tried to conscript this Aurelia Dragonborn,” Serana pointed out. “She’s got the Thu’um and an Elder Scroll of her own.”

“Aurelia is a Priestess of Dibella in her day job,” Falion observed dryly. “She could tell Isran to take a trip to Coldharbour and have him looking forward to the experience.”

Serana grinned. “I could get to like her. Is she single?”

“Married to the goddess, I suspect, though she’s been known to take the odd lover.” Falion looked straight ahead. “I think it would be very hard for her to find an equal, in will and personal strength if not power. Perhaps she might prefer it that way. My art is of death, not love.”

Jarl Idgrod was seated in the corner of Highmoon Hall with two guests, one of them a small sunburnt Manmeri with an elaborate crossbow and the other a burn-scarred Yokudan with milky-white eyes and strange maroon-hued robes. “Serana, Falion, come join us,” the Jarl ordered in her scratchy voice. “Sorine Jurard is an artificer and Irkand Aurelius the chaplain of the Dawnguard.”

“Don’t worry, I just drank one of Falion’s disgusting blood potions,” Serana assured the pair. “I won’t be having you two for dessert.”

“Arkay gave us a ritual to imbue our blood with the purifying powers of the sun when consumed,” Irkand said mildly. “While your combustion would be quite entertaining, I’m no longer in the position of enjoying the show.”

“Gods, I’m still trying to figure out how you developed a sense of humour,” Sorine said dryly.

“If Isran can learn some sense, Irkand can develop a sense of humour,” Falion said lightly as he took a seat, Serana following suit.

“But for the moment, to be on the safe side, I would advise you remain away from Fort Dawnguard,” Irkand advised. “Isran’s willing to tolerate you as a resource, but he’s going to be far less sanguine – pun intended – if you should not avail yourself of a cure past this crisis.”

“Fuck him,” Serana said succinctly.

“I do believe Irkand has,” Sorine drawled.

Irkand managed to turn red-bronze under his burn scars as everyone else laughed. “Neither of us are sworn to celibacy in service to our respective deities,” he muttered.

“And no one else could put up with his arrogant, paranoid arse,” Sorine agreed cheerfully.

Serana grinned at her. “You, I like.”

“Seriously speaking, Hjaalmarch is too close to the reputed location of Castle Volkihar – and too exposed – for my comfort,” Idgrod said grimly. “You have the choice of the Reach or Winterhold; both have their resources and their drawbacks.”

“In the Reach, a Daughter of Coldharbour would be considered a Matriarch, a kind of… priestess of a dark power. You’d have respect and authority there on the understanding you serve Jarl Argis and his wife Ard Ban-Ri Kaie,” Irkand said softly. “Whereas at Winterhold, the College is a magical fortress, they really don’t give a damn what you do so long as you aren’t feasting on the faculty or the town, and it’s the greatest collection of magical knowledge outside of merish lands.”

“Winterhold’s near the ruins of Saarthal and is home to the Ysmir Collective,” Falion supplied helpfully. “Jarl Bjarni’s also quite pragmatic, so long as you don’t announce to all and sundry you’re a Daughter of Coldharbour and that you deal with threats his men can’t.”

“I’d rather have half of Skyrim between me and my father,” Serana said fervently. “Will Isran mind?”

“If we know where you are – and believe me, I will find you wherever you go – he will… tolerate it,” Irkand assured her. “Even Calcelmo, the world authority on Falmer and Dwemer, and the House of Dibella could tell me little about this ‘Tyranny of the Sun’ beyond certain disaster if it was to be fulfilled. I’d like more knowledge before I bring you to Fort Dawnguard.”

“Well then,” Serana said quietly. “My choice is clear – Winterhold it is.”


	9. The Moth Priest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism.

“Great. The vampire with the Elder Scroll has moved to the College of Winterhold. What could possibly go wrong?”

“She isn’t the Altmer who nearly ended the world with an Aedric artefact,” Irkand said mildly. “Isran, I know you and your temper. You would have antagonised the woman needlessly.”

Isran inhaled deeply and sighed. “Since when did you understand people?”

“I’m still not good at that, but I am familiar with expediency. Arkay is a little open-minded compared to Stendarr on that front.” Irkand folded his arms. “We know the name and source of this prophecy, its potential significance to the vampires and the most likely individual behind these attacks. Some of Skyrim’s finest minds are working on it. We have an artificer and a beast-tamer, the support of three Jarls, and several more recruits. Short of a supreme weapon that can annihilate every vampire in sight, what more can we ask for at this current time?”

“I just want to know what role the Elder Scrolls play in all of this,” Isran admitted frustratedly. “We know so little-“

“But there’s a source we can consult, one that’s probably on its way to Skyrim as we speak now there’s a known Elder Scroll in Markarth,” Irkand interrupted serenely. “I know the Curate Emeritus of the Moth Priests, one Dexion Evicus. Give me… hmm… Durak and young Agmaer and I’ll use Clairvoyance to find him.”

“If Harkon’s got half a brain, he’ll consider that too,” Isran mused.

“Why do you think I’ve asked for muscle? I’m not what I was.” Irkand sighed and passed a hand over his scarred face. “The fact is that some Imperials may consider me a traitor because I entered Arkay’s service. The Moth Priests are loyal to the Empire and Dexion may not speak to me openly, given Rustem and Aurelia’s actions during the civil war.”

“You’re not responsible for your idiot relatives,” Isran reminded him. “But take those two. We can’t assume that our enemies have been sleeping while we work.”

…

“They’ve got him!” hissed Agmaer as he rejoined Irkand and Durak just outside the stone fortress on the Haafingar-Reach border. “They’ve got the monk and some Orc named Malkus is enthralling him!”

“Well, well,” Durak growled. “I get to kill two birds with one stone. He’s the bastard who killed my wives.”

Being a Dawnguard was more work and less glory than Agmaer expected. Under Celann and Irkand’s eye, he’d been running laps, learning how to fall, and performing what the latter called ‘calisthenics’, but seemed like pointless physical exercises at first. It wasn’t until he’d seen Isran and Irkand wrestle (and not in bed, ribald jokes about the pair aside) that he realised the blind priest was in better physical shape than most of the guards Agmaer knew and able to hold his own against many enemies. According to Celann, he’d been a Blades assassin who’d done a service for the Empire, so had been allowed to become a Knight of the Circle, one of Arkay’s militant priests. The necromancers and undead called him ‘Death’s Blade’ and feared him even more than Isran, and most vampires fled the area whenever Isran arrived. No wonder he and Isran were together.

“Agmaer,” Irkand said softly. “Your job is to get Dexion out of there. I’m going to give you a special rag; don’t sniff it or you’ll knock yourself out. Put it to his nose and carry him out. We’ll handle the rest.”

“Yes, sir,” Agmaer said quickly.

They crept inside Forebears’ Hideout, where Durak’s crossbow and Irkand’s wrestling skills allowed them to take care of the vampire and death hound guards. It wasn’t until they reached the main room that they realised Malkus had trapped Dexion behind a barrier.

“Does this rag work on vampires?” Agmaer hissed to the other two.

“No,” Irkand admitted, chagrined. “It’s a kind of sleeping potion.”

“Don’t worry,” Durak announced, loading his crossbow with a bolt that reeked of earth-tar and more acrid things. “Sorine made up a nice little exploding bolt. That should distract Malkus enough for us to kill him.”

The bolt did indeed explode… and so did Malkus’ head. They found the magical stone keeping Dexion trapped and when the barrier was down, Agmaer jumped him from behind and put the rag to his face. It worked as promised and they soon manhandled him out of the fortress and back into Haafingar.

“What happened?” the older man mumbled as he woke up at their camp. “I remember a great and glorious Orc…”

“Malkus was neither great nor glorious,” Durak said dryly. “He died too easy for what he’s done.”

“You were enthralled by a vampire,” Irkand said gently. “Thankfully, I was able to track you down with my friends from the Dawnguard here.”

“If my knowledge of history serves me, I recall that the Dawnguard was an ancient order of vampire hunters,” Dexion said as Irkand helped him sit up. “I knew those rumours of your demise were greatly exaggerated, Irkand.”

“I nearly died,” the priest said softly. “I’m now a lay priest of Arkay.”

“You deserve peace, my friend,” Dexion said warmly. “Now, why were you seeking me out?”

“We have a vampire at the College of Winterhold with an Elder Scroll that needs reading,” Irkand told him. “There’s something about the Tyranny of the Sun involved-“

Dexion shuddered. “A vile prophecy, what little I’ve heard of it. I would need to read this Elder Scroll to find specifics, but…”

“We might as well go to Winterhold. I imagine Serana herself would like some answers,” Durak growled. “I’ll send a pigeon to alert Isran and we can catch the ferry there.”

Irkand winced. “Meeting one of my former sister-in-law’s sons will be interesting.”

“Are you related to _everyone_?” Agmaer blurted.

“Only the idiots and traitors of the past few decades,” Irkand said sourly.

“You should return to Cyrodiil when this is done,” Dexion suggested. “Akaviria knows you’re not responsible for Rustem or Aurelia-“

“Aurelia… didn’t turn on the Empire, not as Akaviria might think,” Irkand said softly. “It was her presence that did most of the work.”

“Hmm.” Dexion’s voice was noncommittal. “I was going to Markarth to get the Dragon Scroll from her.”

“I have a feeling she’s not going to give you it,” Irkand said with a sigh. “She _did_ say the Empire had brought much of its fate upon itself.”

“Empires rise and fall, but a Dibellan doesn’t have the training to handle an Elder Scroll,” Dexion said severely.

Agmaer laughed. “She killed Alduin with it!”

“Alduin… Alduin World-Eater?” Dexion asked in shock.

“She’s the Last Dragonborn,” Irkand confirmed.

“And I thought a vampire trying to bring about eternal night was the most horrifying thing I’d learn today. Akatosh have mercy on our souls.”


	10. Safety in Winterhold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence and fantastic racism. I have a particular head-canon for how stalhrim is made, so it’s referenced here. Uni’s coming up and so my posting rate will drop drastically soon.

Winterhold was… cold. And more desolate than Serana expected. Wasn’t it the capital of Skyrim? No, wait, it had been like that until something called the Great Collapse. Judging by the chasm between village and College, it hadn’t been pretty.

But there were plans to expand; she was halted by guards just before the mine, where walls made from what looked like stalhrim rose to the height of three men and gates of weathered wood guarded the enclosure. Serana gave her name and stated she was here to study at the College, and they let her through. Inside, there were a collection of houses and an empty expanse of snow, with another group of houses right by the chasm. There was a dome of what could have been glass or exceptionally clear ice that contained green growing things within and the beginnings of what looked to be a great hall.

Jarl Bjarni was splitting firewood as a female Dunmer was directing a couple younger mer to stack it properly in the shed. Big enough to rival Harkon in size, his sable hair was tied back with a leather thong containing several ivory fisherman’s charms, and he had sacred tattoos running from shoulder to wrist on both arms. The womer wore fine wool and was heavily pregnant, peasant charms for health hanging around her neck.

“I’m guessing you must be Serana,” the Jarl observed as he rested the woodcutter’s axe across his powerful shoulders.

“What gave it away?” she asked dryly.

“The fact that there’s only two women in Skyrim with Elder Scrolls in their possession, and you look nothing like my sister,” he responded with equal dryness. “Idgrod and Falion sent me a message. I hope you’re not bringing trouble to my Hold, Serana. It’s suffered enough.”

“I don’t intend to, and I will gladly lend my strength to protecting it,” she promised. “Thank you for letting me come here.”

“Thank Onmund. He wants to know everything you know about the Clever Craft.” Bjarni laid the axe on a rack and accepted a towel from the womer to dry himself. “I’m inclined to give you the benefit of the doubt because despite a year of busting my arse, bandits and the odd necromancer are _still_ taking advantage of my Hold’s lack of manpower. Idgrod said you were efficient.”

“I am,” Serana confirmed with a smile. She rather appreciated his frankness. “I know how to make Falion’s blood potions, so there will be no preying upon your people, I promise.”

“I’d have preferred you got yourself cured but… Quaranir says there wouldn’t be anything stopping Harkon from making himself another Daughter of Coldharbour. Even the Psijics know little about this prophecy and that troubles him.” Bjarni sighed and dried his hair with the towel. “I suppose this Dawnguard are involved?”

“Yes. Irkand told me that he needed Isran to calm down about working with a vampire before talking with me again.”

Bjarni grimaced. “Irkand Aurelius. I should have guessed he’d be involved with this now his precious Emperor’s dead and Skyrim’s left his damn Empire.”

“I know a little about the civil war,” Serana said tentatively. “Idgrod had a couple books about it and Falion told me more.”

“My husband’s relationship with the Aurelii is… complicated,” the womer said after a moment’s hesitation. “His father was murdered by Irkand’s brother Rustem, yet Rustem was his mother’s former husband and father to his sister, the Dragonborn, who revealed the knowledge that his mother had taken out assassination contracts on everyone in her family ‘just in case’.”

Bjarni sighed. “I can’t exactly hate Rustem for it. My mother took out those contracts and he’s helped Skyrim as much as he’s given the Stormcloaks grief. Hating my sister would be like hating a thunderstorm; pointless because a force of nature doesn’t give a shit about what you think. Doesn’t mean I have to be happy about working with another Aurelii though.”

“My father is obsessed with an ancient prophecy and my mother entombed me with an Elder Scroll to try and prevent it,” Serana said sympathetically. “I know your pain, Jarl Bjarni.”

“From everything I’ve heard, Harkon and Sigdrifa would have gotten on well. Thank the gods she’ll never be a Daughter of Coldharbour,” Bjarni said softly. “You better get over to the College. When Irkand and his friends show up, I’ll send a messenger.”

“Thank you.” Serana bowed slightly.

The College’s gate-guard was a golden-skinned Aldmer with long coarse blonde hair. “You must be Serana,” she greeted with a smile. “I am Faralda, Destruction Master and senior battlemage of the College.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” Serana said, returning the smile. “I know how to make blood potions, so I won’t be snacking on the faculty.”

“Much to the disappointment of some of them, I’m sure,” Faralda said dryly. “Let me take you across the bridge and introduce you to the Master Wizard, Brelyna Maryon. She handles the day-to-day administration of the College.”

Brelyna Maryon was a girlish black-haired Dunmer with big garnet eyes and a ready smile. “Welcome,” she greeted. “I’ve set aside a room in the Hall of Attainment for you. I’m sure you’re a competent mage, but College policy is to enrol students as Apprentices until we can test their knowledge and skill, unless they’ve got a known reputation in academia.”

“I understand. I’m a competent necromancer and alchemist, but magic’s changed so much since I practiced it that I couldn’t say what level of skill I hold,” Serana agreed as Faralda waved farewell.

“We’ll assess you in a couple days,” promised Brelyna as she led Serana into the Hall of Attainment. “I suggest you acquaint yourself with the senior faculty and the College’s facilities until then.”

Serana’s room was small and neat, with a fur-strewn bed, bookcase, desk and a wardrobe. “This used to be my room,” Brelyna admitted with a smile. “Arch-Mage Onmund has his quarters in the tower, but the rest of us have our own private room and common facilities.”

“It’s fine,” Serana assured the Master Wizard. “It’s… homely and pleasant.”

It was _safe_.

Serana sat down on the bed after the Master Wizard had made her farewells. There was a lock on the door. She could shut the world out if she wanted to.

For some reason, that made her weep, and when the tears had passed she felt hollowed and empty, as if she’d survived a fever.

She was safe.


	11. The Sun Scroll

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, rape/non-con, torture, imprisonment and corpse desecration.

“Brother Irkand? I’m Father Erandur, High Priest of Mara and current keeper of the Temple of All Gods. The Jarl sent me to greet you and your friends.”

The Dunmer was soft-spoken, with the peculiar burr of the Skyrim-dwelling sort, and his tone was gentle. Irkand inclined his head in the voice’s direction.

“Thank you. We seek to speak to Serana and possibly the Arch-Mage, if it’s possible?” he asked.

“Certainly! Serana told us you’d be along soon.” Erandur sighed. “Would you care to stay with me? The Jarl’s feelings towards the Aurelii are… complicated, to say the least, and so it might be too much of an emotional strain for him to give you hospitality ungrudgingly.”

“The Dawnguard’s done nothing to him!” snapped Agmaer out of youthful enthusiasm and loyalty.

“No, they haven’t, but Irkand’s brother Rustem killed Bjarni’s mother – however much she may have earned her fate – and arranged the death of his father Ulfric. His sister, the Dragonborn, was the one who shared the information that condemned Sigdrifa and while Jarl Bjarni was among the first to declare her _nithing_ , the Stormsword was still his mother. Irkand is a known Imperial loyalist and Bjarni is a Stormcloak.” Erandur’s tone was gently chiding. “It’s been a year or so since everything happened, young man. That’s not a long time for this sort of thing.”

“We’ll accept your hospitality. May I introduce Dexion Evicus, Curate-Emeritus of the Moth Priests, and Durak and Agmaer of the Dawnguard?” Irkand said, gesturing to the others.

“Welcome to Winterhold. I’ll let Suvaris know you’re here and she’ll send food and drink.” Erandur led them past the gate. “I’m a little surprised to see you working with Serana, given her, ah, status.”

“We’re pragmatists,” Durak said. “She better get herself a cure when this is over.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of Falion’s cure. Horrendous, but…” Erandur shook his head. “Barring a direct Aedric miracle or intervention by another Daedric Prince, substituting one black soul for another is the only way to free someone of Molag Bal’s influence.”

“Plenty of bastards who don’t appreciate their souls,” Durak said tersely. “We’re for trapping Volkihar souls if a cure is necessary.”

Erandur gave a short sharp laugh. “Poetic justice, I suppose, though as a Priest of Mara I must deplore it.”

They were soon comfortably lodged in Erandur’s cottage with the spicy warming foods and drinks of Morrowind brought around by Suvaris, who was the Jarl’s wife. “Serana will come over once it’s dark,” she promised, pouring sujamma for them all. “Erandur, Bjarni might be willing to talk about some of his troubles, so please be on hand.”

“It would be my pleasure,” Erandur said softly. “He’s a good young man.”

“He’s the best of the Stormcloaks, and I don’t say that because he’s my husband,” Suvaris said simply. “Egil is very… rigid. He’s given Orcs, Reachfolk and Dunmer the right to worship their Princes but the Aedric faiths are promoted while ours are expected to remain private.”

“He was trained as a Vigilant,” Erandur countered. “But yes, Egil can be difficult at times.”

“It’s odd, because Aurelia and Bjarni are much alike, yet they’re the most estranged of the siblings,” Suvaris said with a sigh. “I wish you could persuade her to visit more.”

“You can hardly persuade a storm,” Erandur observed. “But I’ll try.”

“Thank you.” Then she was gone.

“Personality-wise, Bjarni is Ulfric’s son and Egil is Sigdrifa’s,” Erandur said laconically. “I think if we’d been able to exile Rustem, at the very least, it would have healed several wounds. But the freedom of religion laws _technically_ allow the veneration of Sithis and not to mention the fact he’s a Thane of the Pale and Hjaalmarch. Diplomatic immunity so long as he isn’t caught killing anyone.”

“Give Rustem an inch and he’ll take a mile,” Irkand agreed sourly.

Serana arrived a couple hours later and sounded less wary when she spoke. “That was quicker than I expected,” she observed as she sat down at the table.

“We found a Moth Priest who can read your Elder Scroll,” Irkand told her candidly.

“Wait, give me a moment? I’ve got a Psijic colleague who might be able to glean more information about this damned prophecy himself. There’s… fragments, I suppose, but we can’t put them together.” There was the sound of casting and Serana said, “Quaranir, can you come to Erandur’s house? We have a Moth Priest here.”

“Certainly,” said a haughty Altmer male’s voice. “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

Quaranir arrived soon enough, greeted Erandur as a friend, and took a seat at the table. “Serana, the Sun Scroll, if you would?”

There was the sound of metal being laid on the table and then Dexion murmured a prayer before taking the Scroll and opening it.

“I see a vision before me, an image of a great bow. I know this weapon! It is Auriel's Bow! Now a voice whispers, saying ‘Among the night's children, a dread lord will rise.’ In an age of strife, when dragons return to the realm of men, darkness will mingle with light and the night and day will be as one.

The voice fades and the words begin to shimmer and distort. But wait, there is more here. The secret of the bow's power is written elsewhere. I think there is more to the prophecy, recorded in other scrolls. Yes, I see them now... One contains the ancient secrets of the dragons, and the other speaks of the potency of ancient blood.

My vision darkens, and I see no more. To know the complete prophecy, we must have the other two scrolls.”

“By the gods,” Quaranir breathed. “I know of this. ‘To Spit in Auri-El’s Eye’, we call this dark prophecy.”

Durak grunted. “Dragon Scroll’s pretty obvious. That’s the one Aurelia carries. Blood Scroll, on the other hand…”

“My mother would have known where it was,” Serana said softly. “And I know where to look for any knowledge pertaining to it.”

Irkand reached out and squeezed Dexion’s hand gently. “You did well, my friend.”

“I’ll send a message to Aurelia,” Erandur immediately said. “She’s a dear and personal friend.”

“I’ll take it. I want to meet this Dragonborn,” Serana said quietly. “I… did Sorine make it to the Dawnguard?”

“She did and has been improving our crossbows,” Durak confirmed. “I didn’t know you were friends.”

“I… She sounds like someone I’d like, with a love of and for knowledge. That’s all I ever really wanted, to study as much as I please and see the world. What I got was something different.” The flat tone of trauma was in Serana’s sweet voice.

“I see no reason why, if Sorine’s willing, she can’t be our liaison with Serana,” Irkand told Durak. “If we’re going to insist on Serana returning to humanity, we must help her build positive relationships with others.”

“You’ve learned a lot over the past few years, my friend,” Dexion said approvingly.

“You can thank Runil for that,” Irkand admitted. “Serana, you should talk to my niece. As a Dibellan, she is familiar with the kinds of trauma you’ve endured, and knows how to help you heal yourself.”

“What do you know of what I’ve endured?” Serana asked flatly.

“Do you think your father’s been the only person in the world to try and make a Daughter of Coldharbour?” Irkand asked softly. “To put it bluntly, I was inducted into the Order of the Circle of Arkay because I was an experienced assassin known for taking down targets beyond most people’s capabilities. I have seen the cruelties man and mer will inflict in the hope of immortality. I can’t speak for what you’ve endured, but I can put you in the direction of someone who is familiar with your suffering and comes from a religious order that has counselled many, many survivors of Bal cultists. Dibella is the greatest Aedric enemy of Molag Bal and so much of Her clergy are skilled in defying and destroying His works.”

“I’ll think about it.” Serana’s tone was final.

Later on, Erandur pulled Irkand aside. “I know you come from a good place, but you can’t force someone to confront their trauma until they’re ready, otherwise you risk making it worse,” the Priest of Mara told him. “You can’t force a wound or a broken bone to heal faster than the body can bear; it’s the same with spiritual, emotional and physical trauma.”

“But…” Irkand sighed. “If she cures herself, it would heal much of it.”

“That’s for her to decide, not you.” Erandur’s tone turned amused. “No wonder Aurelia bangs her head against a wall whenever you show up.”

“She _what_?”

Erandur laughed and refused to elaborate.


	12. Knowing Your Daedric Princes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, torture, imprisonment, rape/non-con, misogyny, queerphobia in general and lesbophobia in particular, and fantastic racism. Aurelia’s really only going to be involved in Scroll Scouting, Seeking Disclosure and Touching the Sky. Everything else is still Irkand’s show.

“Etain! There’s a vampire and a member of the Dawnguard here to see you and they’ve got an Elder Scroll!”

“Bring them in,” called out a voice, low and sweet as honey but with a soft hoarse edge to it like distant thunder, in response to Rhiada’s request.

The junior priestess led them into what she called ‘the scriptorium’, a pleasant room shelved and panelled with the pale pinkish and beige wood of the juniper, floored with creamy granite, and plastered with a creamy-gold hue that seemed to multiply the light of the dozen of so magelights cast about the place. It smelt of parchment, ink and beeswax with the underlying fragrance of flowers that permeated the entire Temple. Every shelf and most of the desks had books on them, beautifully bound and ornate tomes that were sometimes open to show paper and parchment pages illuminated and even gilded, the calligraphy and images breath-takingly vivid. A woman, wearing the cream, plum and dusky rose robes common to the Temple, was scribing something intricate on a sheet of snow-white paper and drawing a finger after it, the glow of blue-green magicka visible even from here.

“We finally catch you doing your day job,” Sorine observed in amusement.

“Since you’re not around, I don’t have Calcelmo bothering me for scribing on a regular basis,” answered the woman as she set her quill down. “It’s a pleasure to do my day job, as it was what I was trained for.”

“How is the old coot, anyway?” Sorine asked fondly.

“Would you believe he and Faleen are in love with each other? Aicantar’s relieved because it means he can focus on his own projects.” The Dragonborn pushed back her long black hair with rainbow-stained hands, leaving a streak of rose madder in her hair. “So I’m guessing your lady friend is the Serana I’ve been hearing about?”

“I am,” Serana confirmed. “The Dawnguard sent Sorine to be my liaison because, ah…”

“The other options are less tactful and diplomatic,” Sorine finished. “Irkand’s already put his foot in it, and he’s apparently teaching Isran tact and diplomacy.”

“Isran has legitimate reasons for his hatred of vampires but when the gods were handing out charisma, he skipped the line and went straight for extra stubbornness,” Aurelia answered amusedly. “My uncle has his flaws, but he’s more level-headed than Isran, and his training under Runil has softened his own ruthless streak. I suppose it comes when you’re trained as an assassin from toddlerhood.”

“That’s terrible!” Serana gasped.

“Yes, it was,” Aurelia agreed. “From what I’ve heard, your father and my grandfather and mother have much in common. I will just tell you what I was told as a child by the Dibellan priestesses who raised me: _It is not, nor never was, your fault what was done to you or the choices that your parents made._ You are responsible for yourself, Serana – not your father, not your mother, and most certainly not Molag Bal.”

“Irkand said I should talk to you,” Serana said after a moment’s silence. “He was very bull-headed about it.”

“I can imagine. I know my uncle and he’s at heart a good man, but that good man was rarely given the chance to shine as he was turned into a tool for murder and ruthlessness.” Aurelia sighed. “You don’t need to tell me what happened. I’m familiar with the rites that make a Daughter of Coldharbour. Most high-ranking Dibellans are.”

“Thanks. It was rather… degrading.” Serana tilted her head at the Dragonborn. “Why did Rhiada call you ‘Etain’?”

“That’s my Reach name.” Aurelia held up her hands to reveal the shimmering outlines of dragonfly wings etched in gold, blue and green on her olive-bronze skin. “It’s a play on my nature as Dragonborn and the fact that dragonflies are sacred to Dibella in the Reach. My maternal grandmother is Catriona of Lost Valley Clan and the Glenmoril Coven.”

“My mother was Valerica, Matriarch of the Cold Swamps – Hjaalmarch – and member of the Snowhawk Coven,” Serana said softly.

“When we’re done here, go up to old Nepos at Understone Keep and have him check your lineage for a patent of nobility,” Aurelia advised. “I know Raven Crone Clan now rules in Hjaalmarch, but it never hurts to find out if you’ve got distant relatives. I’ve got a whole tribe of cousins I never knew existed and it’s helped me a lot.”

“Thanks,” Serana repeated.

“You’re welcome. I’m sure the Dawnguard have been at you about getting cured but…” Aurelia sighed. “There’s only three or four Daedric Princes willing to give Molag Bal the metaphorical finger if you want to try to have your cake and eat it too. Boethiah, Hermaeus Mora, Sithis and _maaaaaaybe_ Hircine if you want to embrace the predatory aspects of being a vampire.”

“Isn’t it blasphemy for an Aedric priestess to encourage someone to deal with the Daedric Princes?” Sorine asked, eyebrows rising.

“The Three Mothers are more pragmatic than their brethren,” Aurelia observed dryly. “But more importantly, I have been powerless and clung to whatever I could in that time. I’m not going to urge Serana to cure herself until – or if – she was ready.”

“Good point,” Sorine conceded. “I’ve considered a bargain with Hermaeus Mora, except, you know, Seekers and Lurkers are disgusting and you’re never really satisfied with whatever knowledge you’ve gathered.”

“Exactly. I met a man, Septimus, who was obsessed with the Elder Scrolls. He was… fairly cracked, to put it politely. I never brought the lexicon he gave me back, because I knew Hermaeus Mora had his mitts on the whole thing and I wasn’t minded to assist him.” Aurelia folded her arms and sighed. “Granma serves Hircine and she’s fairly sane. My own great-great-grandmother became an aspect of Sheogorath called the Madgoddess who is now also the Hunts-Wife of Malacath. One of my dearest friends and former lovers is an agent of Nocturnal and my father is the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood, and both of them played critical parts in assisting me in the defeat of Alduin. What you do with your own soul is your own damned business. Just go in with open eyes.”

She clasped her hands together. “But you didn’t come here to be lectured. Are you here to consult the Sibyl? I can get you past the line.”

“So, we found and rescued a Moth Priest named Dexion, and he’s read my Sun Scroll, and we need to find Auriel’s Bow,” Sorine answered as Serana pondered on what Aurelia said. “We need your Dragon Scroll and something called the Blood Scroll.”

“My mother Valerica had the Blood Scroll. I think she’s hidden it in her old wing of Castle Volkihar, just off the shores of Haafingar,” Serana told her. “I think I can sneak in and out.”

Aurelia placed her fingers to her lips. “I might be able to help you in that. I don’t dare move that closely to somewhere consecrated to Molag Bal, not after I destroyed one of his altars, but I can have your gear enchanted for maximum stealth. I assume Sorine’s going with you?”

“Yes,” Sorine confirmed. “Could you put a couple enchantments on my crossbow?”

“Blessing and fire. Best weapons against the undead,” Aurelia agreed. “I’ll take you to Mother Hamal. She’s in charge of this Temple.”

Mother Hamal was a handsome older woman with white hair and a comforting voice. Serana and Sorine, wrapped in blankets, watched as the priestess sprinkled all their arms and armour with holy water from a strange resin bowl, chanting softly as golden magicka wreathed around her to sink into the items like water into dry soil. It was a far cry from the traditional use of soul gems for enchantment.

More exhausting too, if her weariness afterwards was anything to go by. Aurelia helped the older woman to a seat as Rhiada dried the arms and armour.

“I wouldn’t go anywhere near a Shrine of Molag Bal wearing these,” Aurelia advised. “We’ve given your garb similar blessings to those we put on our Knights of the Lily, and quite strongly too. Dibella’s minded to take a hand in this.”

“Thank you,” Serana said softly.

“I do have to ask, because Isran’s been on my arse about it, why you’re not helping the Dawnguard directly?” Sorine asked as she redonned her armour.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, that man’s still an insufferable prick,” Aurelia observed disgustedly as Hamal rolled her eyes with a groan. “I could go to Castle Volkihar now on the back of a dragon and reduce the place to rubble and ruin with my Voice. But, as Dragonborn and a Champion of Dibella, that would provoke a _personal_ reaction from Molag Bal equal to Mehrunes Dagon’s attempts to invade Nirn during the Oblivion Crisis. What do you know, Sheogorath and Meridia are joining the party because I’m descended from one and the other takes every possible chance to say ‘fuck you’ to Molag Bal. Do you want three or four Daedric Princes fighting in Nirn? That’s how you get three or four Daedric Princes fighting in Nirn.”

“Invoking Meridia may be no bad idea though,” Hamal said wearily. “Her Shrine is on the way to Castle Volkihar in Haafingar.”

“Hard to miss the giant statue overlooking the harbour from Mt Kilkreath,” Aurelia agreed ruefully.

Sorine rubbed her chin. “I might send for Agmaer. He’s young, he’s dumb, he’s certain he’s in the right and he’s got some skill with the sword. Meridia will give him Dawnbreaker quicker than you can blink.”

“You _do_ know your Daedric Princes,” Hamal observed amusedly.

“One does one’s best,” Sorine said modestly.

“When you have your Blood Scroll, return here and I’ll travel with you to Fort Dawnguard or wherever Dexion’s stashed these days,” Aurelia promised. “With a dragon or two, it’ll take a couple hours.”

“I love how you’re so casual about that,” Sorine drawled. “How do they feel about it?”

“Dragons live in the world too,” Aurelia said softly. “Now they’re learning to love and protect it.”

“That’s why you’re the Dragonborn,” Serana said slowly. “You’re not here to kill them like Miraak did, but to protect them.”

“Something like that,” Aurelia confirmed.


	13. Two Stubborn Old Coots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration.

“That statue is huge!” Agmaer breathed.

“I remember seeing it from the harbour when I sailed to Solitude,” Irkand agreed quietly. “If I hadn’t wielded Goldbrand, an artefact of Boethiah’s at the time, I might have sought out Dawnbreaker for my work.”

“So wielding a Daedric artefact doesn’t make you a worshipper of that Daedric Prince?” the young Nord asked anxiously.

“If your goals align with the Daedric Prince, they’ll generally let that little detail slide. Boethiah is a great enemy of Molag Bal’s, so they were happy to let me wield Goldbrand against vampires and necromancers. Meridia will be more insistent… but she’ll settle for you killing vampires.” Irkand rested a hand on Agmaer’s shoulder. “You are our best swordsman and Dawnbreaker is a powerful tool to slay the undead.”

“Easy for you to say,” he muttered. “You’re not going to be wielding it.”

“Shall we get started?” Serana asked mildly. “Sunlight’s not exactly good for my complexion, you know.”

After Sorine had sent the message suggesting someone acquire Dawnbreaker for their crusade, she and Serana met Agmaer and Irkand at Solitude Harbour to assist them before going to Castle Volkihar. Irkand wondered if he was the only one who could scent lilies around them. The priestesses of Dibella had outfitted them with the same enchantments used by Knights of the Lily in fighting undead, it seemed. Irkand didn’t even know the Order of the Lily was that militant; he’d considered them Temple guards and personal bodyguards for the priestesses.

Agmaer, guided by Meridia, led them through the Daedric Prince’s shrine, which was infested by undead raised by a necromancer named Malkoran. Bog-standard worshipper of Molag Bal and Cultist of the Worm whose only claim to originality was becoming a shade instead of a lich. He died eventually and while Agmaer was claiming Dawnbreaker, Sorine and Serana looted the place bare.

Irkand sat down on one of the benches, panting. He’d lost so much of his stamina after the fire that nearly killed him; he couldn’t keep up with the younglings anymore.

Dammit.

Serana Healed him and the exhaustion vanished. “You and Agmaer get back to Fort Dawnguard, and then you stay there,” she ordered. “You’re an ass, Irkand, but you’re a good man.”

“Once I could have taken Malkoran with both hands tied behind my back,” he said wearily.

“Those days are gone. From what Aurelia said, it’s probably for the best.” Serana patted him on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

They parted at the foot of Mount Kilkreath, Sorine finding the Word of a Shout she’d pay a courier to give Aurelia. Apparently his niece had made a very favourable impression on the two women. Once they had the Blood Scroll, they’d swing by Markarth and collect her, then come to Fort Dawnguard so Dexion could read all three Scrolls.

It was a long brooding trip back to Fort Dawnguard for Irkand and Agmaer. Both of them were content to be lost in their thoughts and sensing their mood, the carriage driver remained silent.

Durak had found even more recruits in the meantime and Dayspring Canyon echoed with the sounds of activity, including the raucous bellows of several more Orcs led by one Tarlak gro-Mashog. “They’re Chaka-Orsum like me,” the former chief observed. “Trapped in Vaermina’s mists for over two hundred years, then freed by the Dragonborn. King Tarlak sent them to us as allies for the duration of our fight because we got Malkus.”

“Is Tarlak a common name among Orcs?” Irkand asked. “I had an ancestor with that name.”

“Yes, it’s the same Tarlak, grandfather to the Madgoddess,” Durak answered. “He’s accepted me as Warchief, which irritated Isran.”

“Isran’s easily irritated,” Agmaer noted.

“Particularly when Irkand isn’t around,” Durak laughed.

“Yes, we’ve noticed.”

“Isran isn’t _that_ bad,” Irkand reminded them.

“Because you’re not around to see what he’s like when you’re not around.” Durak sounded amused. “Don’t worry, we’re all surprised you’re the diplomatic one. You must get it from your niece.”

Irkand chose not to dignify that statement with an answer.

Isran and Dexion were talking in the common room when Irkand entered the fort. “We have Dawnbreaker,” he told the pair.

“And Volendrung. Molag Bal’s pissed off a few Daedric Princes and they all want a piece of the action,” Isran answered with a sigh. “There’s enough of the Vigilant in me to be unhappy at all these Daedric artefacts but… we need every weapon we can get.”

“From what Serana and Sorine told me, the priestesses of Dibella concur,” Irkand agreed.

“I know. They sent five of their best Knights of the Lily and two Temple healers with an explanation of why the Dragonborn won’t directly intervene.” Isran sighed again. “I hadn’t considered that possibility. No wonder the gods are working through intermediaries.”

“They only help us when we’ve given everything of ourselves,” Irkand said quietly. “We have the tools to succeed already. We just need to learn how to use them.”

“Well, aren’t you the wise old man on the top of the mountain?” Dexion noted.

“Nearly dying teaches you a bit of patience,” Irkand countered. “Aren’t you a priest too?”

“Why do you think I’m the Curate-Emeritus? I’m too impatient to spend all day contemplating Elder Scrolls,” Dexion chuckled. “But returning with three will be a good end to my career. I’m too old to be running around Tamriel.”

“I don’t think Aurelia’s going to hand over the Dragon Scroll,” Irkand observed. “That’s assuming it wants to leave her. She’s the _Dragonborn_ , Dexion. She perceives time differently to us, I think.”

“She doesn’t have the training, Irkand. I can concede that her innate nature protects her from the ill effects of the Scrolls, but-“

“But nothing,” Isran finished wearily. “Unless you feel like getting into a fight with the House of Dibella, let it go. Two’s a good number.”

“I’m only just the expert on Elder Scrolls around here,” Dexion muttered. “What do I know?”

“About Scrolls, much. About Dragonborn? Fuck all,” Isran said bluntly. “I’ll take the Blade’s advice on this, thanks. Leave Aurelia and her Scroll alone.”

“If people hear you talking like that, Isran, they’ll think you’ve learned some tact and diplomacy,” Irkand noted with a laugh.

“Yes, from you. What does that say about us?”

“We’re two stubborn old coots trying to save the world?”

“Works for me.”


	14. Beyond Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, imprisonment and mentions of rape/non-con, child abuse and queerphobia/lesbophobia. Serana seems to be canonically bisexual (as she admits to feeling a connection with a Dragonborn of any gender) but mine is definitely partial to women (homoromantic).

“Well, that looks ominous,” Sorine remarked as the portal to the unholy dimension where trapped souls went opened.

“It’s worse than you think. For a living person to go there, you’ll be drained in heartbeats. My mother’s clever… maybe too clever,” Serana sighed.

“So what, you go in alone?”

The vampire hesitated. “There are two ways – I can trap a fragment of your soul and offer it to the Ideal Masters, which will place a fragment of the Soul Cairn in your soul and make you immune. Or I can turn you into a Vampire Lord.”

“Okay, that’d be the worse,” Sorine observed dryly. “Vampirism, at least, can be cured. Irkand told me Falion collected several vampire souls during the investigation of Dimhollow Crypt. Failing that, Enthir sells empty black soul gems and… well, there’s plenty of Volkihar bound to annoy us.”

Serana blinked. “Why would you want to be cured? I mean, Aurelia said there might be ways to…”

“Because if I don’t get cured, _at best_ I’ll be a member of a murder cult or a predator for the rest of my life,” Sorine told her quietly. “At worst, when I die, I go to Coldharbour. There’s no perks that are worth that in my eyes.”

“So you agree with Irkand and Isran I should be cured?” Serana asked softly.

“If I were in your shoes, I would be.” Sorine chewed her lip. “Have you ever heard of the ‘sunk cost fallacy’?”

“No.” Serana glanced aside at the portal.

“You’ve suffered so much for this, invested so much of your time and life and energy, that you feel you should keep doing it because you’ve earned it… even if the costs outweighed the benefits,” Sorine told her quietly. “I think that’s what Aurelia was hinting at when we spoke and what Irkand was too blind – pun intended, though he’s never been good at reading people – to see when he blithely told you to seek out counselling. To him and even me, it’s an easy choice. Molag Bal is the worst of the worst when it comes to Daedric Princes; even Boethiah and Mephala have a sort of sideways view of the world that might make sense. To me, no longevity and power would be worth the horrors of Coldharbour. But to you, who survived the rituals that make a Daughter of Coldharbour, it’s hard because you’ve given so much already.”

Serana bit her bottom lip. “That’s… an interesting way to look at it. But at the moment, you need the Daughter of Coldharbour.”

“Even Isran gets that. But it’s something to consider for afterwards.” Sorine sighed. “I’ll be with you every step of the way, if that’s what you want.”

“I’d… like that,” Serana said after a moment. “But we daren’t linger. If Father senses the portal-“

“Change me.” Sorine managed a crooked smile. “Maybe I’ll like it so much we can both work for the Dark Brotherhood afterwards.”

Serana laughed.

…

“Mother? Mother!”

Valerica peered through the pale violet shimmer of the barrier and saw with a mixture of horror and delight it was Serana. “Maker... it can't be. _Serana?_ ”

“Is it really you? I can't believe it! How do we get inside? We have to talk,” Serana said urgently.

“Serana? What are you doing here? Where's your father?”

“He doesn't know we're here. I don't have time to explain-“ Serana began, only to be cut off by the Manmeri Vampire Lord in odd quilted leather armour.

“Succinctly, Harkon’s minions found Serana’s tomb but our allies opened it before they could. We’ve got allies from the College of Winterhold, the Psijic Order, the House of Dibella and a couple Jarls helping us, and once we have the Blood Scroll, our resident Moth Priest will read it, grab the rest of the prophecy, and we’ll beat Harkon to the Bow of Auriel,” she said quickly and concisely.

“I must have failed. Harkon's found a way to decipher the prophecy, hasn't he?” Valerica lamented, earning an eye-roll from the Manmeri.

“Possibly. I assume my enemies know all I do and twice as much as I don’t, and our commanders Isran and Irkand are thrice as paranoid as me.”

“No, you've got it all wrong. We're here to complete the prophecy our way, not his,” Serana added.

“You've brought a stranger here. Have you lost your mind?” Valerica demanded.

“This from the woman who entombed her own daughter because she didn’t trust Serana’s strength and then got herself trapped in some hell-dimension that runs on souls,” the Manmeri retorted.

“This stranger may call herself vampire, but she knows nothing of our struggle, Why should I entrust you to her?” Valerica demanded of Serana.

Her daughter closed her eyes and sighed. “Sorine has done more for me in the brief time I've known her than you've done in centuries!”

“How dare you! I gave up everything I cared about to protect you from that fanatic you call a father!” Valerica yelled.

“Yes, he's a fanatic... he's changed. But he's still my father. Why can't you understand how that makes me feel?” Serana cried out in frustration, reminding Valerica of the child she’d been, all fists and fury.

“Oh, Serana. If you'd only open your eyes. The moment your father discovers your role in the prophecy, that he needs your blood, you'd be in terrible danger,” Valerica said softly.

“So to protect me you decided to shut me away from everything I cared about? You never asked me if hiding me in that tomb was the best course of action, you just expected me to follow you blindly. Both of you were obsessed with your own paths. Your motivations might have been different, but in the end, I'm still just a pawn to you, too. I want us to be a family again. But I don't know if we can ever have that. Maybe we don't deserve that kind of happiness. Maybe it isn't for us. But we have to stop him. Before he goes too far. And to do that, we need the Elder Scroll.” Serana’s voice had grown harsh.

Valerica flinched at the tone. How could she accuse of her of…?

Then she saw the Manmeri’s… Sorine’s face. The Breton was nodding in agreement.

“You might have had the best intentions in the world, but a chick isn’t meant to stay in the nest forever, Valerica. You need to trust in Serana’s strength. I do,” she said softly. “The Last Dragonborn, a Champion of Dibella Herself, does. Hell, even the rabid paranoid vampire hunters I work for do, though they’re dropping hints for her to get cured after this like petals at a wedding.”

Valerica blinked. “The _Last Dragonborn_?”

“Alduin returned, got his ass kicked to Sovngarde and back again, and was banished until the end of time by a Dibellan priestess whose day job is illuminating holy books,” Sorine confirmed dryly. “A woman who, before she learned a few Shouts, had less magic and experience of combat in her entire body than Serana has in her right thumb. I have literal proof the gods are interceding for us through our actions, Valerica. Do you want to live here forever or go back to the Reach where at least they’ll respect you?”

“I'm sorry, Serana. I didn't know... I didn't see. I've allowed my hatred of your father to estrange us for too long. Forgive me. If you want the Elder Scroll, it's yours,” Valerica sighed, wiping at her eyes. “But there’s one problem-“

“Dragon!” Sorine yelled. “Shit shit shit-!”

“Durnehviir. He’s a dragon bound to this plane,” Valerica said quietly.

“Is that so?” Serana pulled the Elder Scroll from her back. “I might be able to do something with this.”

The rotting undead dragon hovered above them all. “My claws have rended the flesh of innumerable foes, but I have never once been felled on the field of battle!”

“I am Serana, Daughter of Coldharbour and bearer of the Sun Scroll,” Serana answered, hands on the Scroll ready to open it. “I cast you out back to the light of the sun by the power of this Scroll as Alduin on the wing was banished beyond time by the power of the Last Dragonborn! In the name of Auriel, in the name of Dibella, in the name of Meridia begone!”

Durnehviir roared once and was gone in a flash of golden light as Serana opened the Scroll.

“Aurelia’s going to love you,” Sorine noted sardonically.

“I suspect he wasn’t here of his own free will. If anyone can free him of his curse, it’ll be the Last Dragonborn.” Serana closed the Scroll. “Now how do we get this barrier done?”

Valerica told them and waited several hours for it to vanish. When they returned, she handed them the Blood Scroll.

“You better come with us so we can close this damned portal,” Sorine said with an odd gentleness. “As the crow flies, you’re several hours away from the Reach. Go to the Temple of the Old Gods in Markarth and the resident Hags should be able to help you.”

“If Harkon senses us-“

Sorine’s smile was nasty. “When we were finding the ingredients to open the portal, I found those for Direnni Fire and booby-trapped the doors. Harkon’s going to get a nasty surprise.”

Valerica laughed delightedly. “You’re a very clever Manmeri! It’s a pity you’re not a man, because I think you’d make my daughter a wonderful spouse!”

“Me being a woman doesn’t make a difference, seeing as Serana has indicated that she prefers women,” Sorine answered bluntly. “These days, it’s not considered that big a deal. The Dragonborn herself has had lovers of more than one gender. The Priests of Mara, Dibella or the other gods will marry anyone of any gender, so long as both parties are consenting and able to consent.”

“There never was, nor never will be, anything wrong with me in that regard,” Serana said softly. “You need to accept all of me, Mother, or have none of me. I’ve lived more in the past month than I did in the two Eras I did as a vampire at Father’s court.”

Valerica bowed her head in understanding. “I’m sorry. For everything.”

“Words only mean something if you’re a dragon, Valerica. Now you need to show it in deeds.” Sorine glanced over her shoulder. “Let’s go, set off the traps, and get out of here. I want to hit Falion up for that cure before we go to Markarth to get the Dragon Scroll.”


	15. Why Wouldn't I?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death and violence.

“So there’s _two_ Daughters of Coldharbour running around. Serana, I can barely stomach. Her mother…”

Irkand placed a hand on Isran’s shoulder sympathetically. “From the little Aurelia’s told me, the Hagravens of the Reach won’t tolerate any trouble from Valerica, and while she might be more powerful they are the more numerous.”

“Maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll wipe each other out.” Isran inhaled and exhaled forcefully. “Dexion should be ready for the reading.”

Now it was Irkand’s time to sigh. “This is likely his Penultimate Reading, you know.”

“He’s a tough boy. He’ll survive,” Isran said dismissively. “I’ll wait for Tolan to arrive from Stendarr’s Beacon before gathering everyone. If something goes wrong, I want plenty of help on hand.”

They entered the common room. “-And thanks to Serana, I now have a dragon ally with the most gruesome array of Shouts I’ve ever had the misfortune to encounter,” Aurelia was saying to someone. “I thought Dragonrend was bad but Soul Tear…”

“Durnehviir’s quite proud of that Shout. It’s very rare for a dragon to create a new one,” Sorine observed. “But… you’re right. It’s not a pleasant Shout to hear or see. I can only imagine what it must mean to you.”

“Succinctly, it drains your enemy’s life force, tears their soul from their body and raises said body to fight for you as a zombie,” Aurelia explained. “To a Dibellan, it’s the ultimate horror, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Molag Bal had a direct hand in its creation.”

“Have you unlocked it?” Serana asked.

“No.” Aurelia sighed. “I managed to free Durnehviir of the Soul Cairn but he’s forever a pariah among the dragons because of what he’s become. Odahviing offered to put him out of his misery but… I dislike absorbing dragon souls. It’s not dissimilar to vampirism.”

“Well, you have a new ally, one with every reason to remain loyal or you’ll stuff him back into the Soul Cairn,” Durak observed pragmatically. “When we attack Castle Volkihar, could you lend him to us? Harkon’s got multiple necromancers among his court and we’ll need every edge we can get.”

“Meridia won’t be happy,” remarked Agmaer.

“Dragons are essentially demigods in the flesh. I’ll have Odahviing and Durnehviir on standby, but Molag Bal would need to manifest before I’d feel safe to call upon Aedric intervention,” Aurelia said softly. “It’s that whole ‘avoiding escalation’ thing.”

“If we can’t win the battle with Volendrung, Dawnbreaker and three Elder Scrolls, then we don’t deserve to win,” growled Tarlak.

“Until we read those Scrolls, it’s all academic,” observed Gunmar. “What’s taking Dexion so long?”

“It takes a while to prepare oneself for the reading of a fragment of divine truth,” Aurelia told him. “Even I need to take a deep breath and still my mind before beginning.”

“Sadly,” Dexion said wearily from the doorway, “I wasn’t prepared properly for reading the Sun Scroll. I fear it might have been my Penultimate Reading.”

It was Isran who summed up everyone’s feelings on the matter. “Shit.”

There was a wry amusement in Dexion’s voice. “I was always too impatient and well… here I am. I’m not sure I’ll regain my sight.”

“We have all three Scrolls,” Serana said softly. “What now?”

“Normally, if we didn’t have the Dragonborn to hand, I would send someone like Isran or Durak to complete the Ritual of the Ancestor Moth as they have an indomitable will and the best chance of surviving the ritual with their minds intact.” There was a creaking of wood as Dexion sat down. “But because the Dragonborn is here, her innate understanding of time will protect her from the worst effects.”

“I’ve heard of the Ritual of the Ancestor Moth,” Aurelia mused.

“I haven’t,” Isran pointed out.”

Dexion chuckled. “It involves carefully removing the bark from a Canticle Tree which will in turn attract Ancestor Moths to you. Once enough of the moths are following, they'll provide you with the second sight needed to decipher the scrolls.”

“I’m guessing we’ll be going to the Ancestor Glade in Falkreath?” Aurelia asked.

“I… Yes.” Dexion sighed. “I have a draw knife if you need it.”

“I will. We Dibellans have our own rituals involving canticle bark and moths, for the moth is of one of the totemic creatures of Dibella.”

“I thought it was the dragonfly?” Serana observed.

“In the Reach, they use the dragonfly to symbolise Dibella. In traditional Nordic religion, She is represented by the moth and the butterfly.” Aurelia sighed. “Serana, I want you and Sorine to accompany me to the Ancestor Glade. Odahviing will take us and stand guard.”

“You trust Serana to watch your back?” Isran asked.

“Why wouldn’t I?”


	16. The Bow of Auri-El

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and mentions of torture and slavery. Compressing ‘Unseen Visions’ and ‘Touching the Sky’ into one chapter as they sort of run into each other. Loads of head-canon involving the relationship between Dibella, Meridia and Auri-El.

“By the gods, this is beautiful,” Sorine whispered.

“Dibella’s works are plain to see if you know how to find them,” Aurelia observed serenely. “Take your places. I will draw some bark from the canticle tree and gather the swarms, then read the Scrolls in order. It will draw attention so be prepared.”

Serana kept one eye on the sky and the other on the priestess, trusting that Sorine had the cave entrance. The Ancestral Glade was truly a beautiful place, dotted with yellow mountain flowers – the only place she’d seen them other than a solitary grave on a tomb between Winterhold and Dawnstar – and the canticle trees with their cream-pink foliage. It smelt like the incense burned at the Temple of Dibella in Markarth and she remembered Aurelia telling Dexion that the Dibellans had their own rituals involving the canticle trees and ancestor moths. She wanted to ask more but had a feeling Aurelia wouldn’t divulge Temple secrets.

“I’ve never seen yellow mountain flowers,” she said to Sorine.

“Here and the gardens of the Temples of Dibella are the only places they grow,” the mechanist answered.

“There’s a tomb with a patch on it in the Pale. I’ve seen it.”

Sorine glanced at Aurelia as she gathered the moths. “That would be Sigdrifa Stormsword’s grave. Aurelia’s mother was condemned as nithing for arranging the deaths of several family members and executed by her vengeful ex-husband because High King Madanach – Kaie’s predecessor – put a contract out on her. She was the last Shieldmaiden of Talos and they’re traditionally buried at Yngvild. Aurelia buried her there with yellow mountain flowers so that in death, she could be with her sister Shieldmaidens and have the beauty, love and grace she was never shown in life. I get the impression Sigdrifa’s childhood wasn’t the best, and that’s why she was so ruthless.”

“I heard the story, but I didn’t know about the burial. Nithings are usually thrown into the sea,” Serana said softly.

“No one made too much of it because the Dragonborn buried her. It was her word – and the Shout that summoned Sigdrifa’s late husband and his huscarl from Sovngarde to prove it – that condemned Sigdrifa, but she alone didn’t declare her nithing.” Sorine sighed. “It was ugly and strained the relationship between Aurelia and her brothers. She lives at the Temple of Dibella for several reasons.”

Serana might have asked more questions but the familiar sound of leather wings cutting through the air caught her attention. “Volkihar!” she yelled.

It was Orthjolf, her father’s huscarl, who led the charge. Sorine coolly sighted along her crossbow and fired, striking a bat-like wing and bringing him to the ground, where Aurelia was able to set him on fire with one short sharp “YOL!” As the other three enemies descended, Serana raised his charred corpse against them.

On the ground, three thralls burst into the glade, ready to attack. The fight was short, sharp and ugly, the moths scattering in alarm as battle rang out through the sacred glade.

But they stood triumphant in the end. Serana looked down at the face of a man she’d known for centuries – and burst into tears.

Aurelia let her cry it out as Sorine embraced her. Intellectually, Serana had known she’d be fighting her father… but it hadn’t truly sunk in yet. Confronted with the face of a man almost like an uncle to her… broke her veneer of calm.

“It’s hard to watch family die,” the Dragonborn said softly. “But I know now where we must go. Darkfall Passage, which is in the northern part of the Reach. Auri-El’s Temple must be cleansed before the Bow can be retrieved.”

“The only building of note is that big temple in the vale you saw when flying over there,” Sorine said, handing Serana a handkerchief. Vampires didn’t get snotty noses, but they did weep blood, so Serana appreciated the gesture. “Can’t we just hop on Odahviing and-“

“Nope. The prophecy was concocted by a fallen Priest of Auri-El and is a direct challenge to the god, so we must follow the forms and cleanse the Temple.” Aurelia smiled. “I will, however, send Odahviing to fetch Agmaer. In the Reacher mythos, which they partially got from the Falmer it seems, Dibella and Meridia are the daughters of Auri-El. It will help to have Dawnbreaker light our way.”

…

“The Betrayed poisoned my brother and turned him from Auri-El,” said the albino elf with a regretful sigh. “I cannot leave here until the Wayshrines are cleansed and reclaimed. Auri-El’s grace doesn’t extend beyond this place… yet.”

“Vampire Falmer. This just got a whole lot worse,” Agmaer grumbled, hand on Dawnbreaker.

“Please call them the Betrayed,” Knight-Paladin Gelebor said with a pained expression. “I know it is all the same to you but to me, the distinction is quite clear.”

“Apologies, Son of the Blessed and the Brightest,” Aurelia told him, “But it may be necessary to kill some of the Betrayed on our journey through the Vale.”

“I understand that. My own brother may be beyond redemption and I regret I must leave the task to you,” Gelebor said apologetically. “Auri-El must be served by the chosen of his beloved daughter and the champion of his prodigal one in this. As each Wayshrine opens, step through and I will heal your hurts as necessary.”

Agmaer was now used to fighting and so killing the Falmer was relatively easier than it would have been a couple months ago. Irkand, Celann and Durak’s training, nonsensical at the time, had turned him from a farmboy into a warrior fit to wield Dawnbreaker. Meridia didn’t ask too much of him, just to kill necromancers and undead, which he was already doing.

He didn’t know what he was going to do after this, though. It was nearly lambing season and his pa would need help on the farm.

The five shrines were reclaimed and then they came to the ancient Falmer temple, which might have been impressive if not for all the flash-frozen Falmer… _Betrayed_ … inside. What did you know, they were vampires, as was Gelebor’s brother. He began some gloating rant about Serana delivering what he needed, then she walked up to him and snapped his neck like a twig. Just to make sure, Agmaer decapitated him.

Aurelia Dragonborn, who’d mostly stayed back and cast Healing spells or Shouted enemy archers off perches, knelt down and closed his eyes as Gelebor stepped into the porch.

“So, the deed has been done. The restoration of this Wayshrine means that Vyrthur must be dead and the Betrayed no longer have control over him,” the snow elf said with a sigh.

“I really hate to break it to you, but he was a vampire controlling them,” Sorine told him candidly.

“A vampire?” Gelebor mused. “I see. That would explain much. Deep inside, it brings me joy that the Betrayed weren't to blame for what happened here.”

“Why?” Agmaer asked curiously, wiping off Dawnbreaker.

“Because that means there's still hope that they might one day shed their hatred and learn to believe in Auri-El once again. It's been a long time since I felt that way and it's been long overdue. My thanks, to all of you,” the priest said softly.

“Have you considered petitioning Auri-El?” Aurelia asked as she picked up a spiky golden bow from a plinth.

“He intervenes less than Dibella, for He regrets his part in making this world,” Gelebor answered. “There are so few of us who remember the old rites left.”

“I’ll have a word to the Psijics. There’s more than a few Altmer sick of the Thalmor who might like a path off this mortal coil that doesn’t involve kicking and dragging the rest of us along,” Aurelia promised.

“The Psijics still exist? Praise Auri-El!” Gelebor said fervently.

“I’m confused,” Agmaer murmured to Serana as the mer gathered some golden elf-arrows and blessed them.

“That makes two of us, though my father’s court wizard always said Aldmer believed they were trapped gods,” she answered.

Aurelia handed the bow and arrows to Sorine. “I believe this is yours to wield.”

“I suppose the Crossbow of Auri-El doesn’t quite have the same ring to it,” the mechanist observed dryly.

“You risked everything to get Auri-El's Bow, and in turn, you've restored the Chantry. I can't think of a more deserving champion to carry it than you,” Gelebor said warmly. “The Chantry will be always open to you.”

“We might be the only Nords in Tamriel to ever hear that,” Serana said wryly to Aurelia, who nodded.

“Did either of you slay snow elves in Ysgramor’s coming?” Gelebor asked.

“No,” Aurelia said softly. “Some of the Betrayed-“

“Who would have slain you. I understand and forgive it.” Gelebor sighed and turned to Agmaer. “Thank you, Champion of Meridia. Auri-El awaits His daughter’s homecoming.”

“Thanks,” Agmaer said awkwardly. “Umm, will you be okay?”

“I will be. When this place is secure, I might see if I can scry other enclaves of my kind and watch over these new Betrayed.” Gelebor smiled sweetly. “Teach this Atmorani a thing or two about the power of Auri-El. It’s petty… but tell him the last of the snow elves sends his regards.”

“I will,” promised Agmaer.

He never saw Gelebor again.


	17. The Idea of Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence and fantastic racism.

“We have the bow.”

Serana’s announcement caused a cheer to rock Fort Dawnguard. Even Irkand gave a tight satisfied smile. Isran unbent enough to give the Daughter of Coldharbour a nod. She’d kept her promises. Now it was time to keep his.

“Then it’s time. Send out word to our allies. We know where Harkon is and how to get to him. By the beginning of next week, Harkon will be dead and the threat ended!”

“We did reconnaissance from dragon-back before Aurelia returned to Markarth,” Sorine continued after glancing at Serana, who nodded. “There’s only one straight entrance in. If you’re up to some stealth, there’s another at the side.”

Irkand’s expression was thoughtful. “There’s going to be twenty or thirty of us against only the gods know how many Vampire Lords and thralls. If I could make some explosives, it’d even up the fight.”

“My mother will be living there once my father’s dead,” Serana said quietly. “I’m given to understand she’s in negotiations with the College of Whispers to open a campus there.”

“Valerica’s sworn allegiance to the Jarl of the Reach, so she’s off-limits,” Sorine added.

Isran ground his teeth and accepted a squeeze on the shoulder from Irkand. They’d tied his hands.

Serana sighed. “Before this happens, I’m going to Morthal. To Falion. I want to do this as a mortal.”

“That’s wonderful news,” Irkand told her. “But why?”

“One, so that if we lose, Father won’t be able to complete the battle,” Serana answered. “But mostly, I never really got the chance to live as a mortal. If I change my mind, I know where Mother is… but I’m going to join Sorine in studying mechanics. The Jarl of the Reach is turning Sky Haven Temple into a big university, with Aurelia’s blessing – she’ll probably teach there herself – and we’ll be focusing on recreating Dwemer technology.”

Irkand smiled. “The pursuit of knowledge is a noble goal, Serana. I wish you the best.”

Later on, after they’d retired for the night, Isran sat down on the bed with his face in his hands. The crusade was coming to an end and after this, he wasn’t sure what he’d do. Agmaer was shaping up to become the next leader of the Dawnguard, which was going to become a militant order of Meridia, and Durak would be returning to Orsinium with Tarlak if they survived the coming battle. Celann had been talking with Tolan about becoming a sedentary priest of Stendarr and the various mercenaries, hunters and adventurers they gathered would return to their lives.

“The hardest thing I had to learn after my blindness was how to stop fighting,” Irkand observed, sitting down next to him. “I spent days retraining my body, digging graves and preparing bodies for burial, but it took months for my mind to accept the concept that violence wasn’t my way of life anymore.”

“We’re weapons,” Isran reminded him.

“No, we are men. Two old coots too stubborn to die.” Irkand’s smile was wry and Isran laughed.

“Will you be returning to Falkreath when this is over?” he asked.

“No, Runil’s got the Hold in hand. I’m thinking of returning to Cyrodiil. Bruma’s Priest of Arkay was looking a bit tottery the last I saw her and I want to know how Akaviria’s doing. I may have chosen Arkay over the Empire, but I am still loyal to them.” He rubbed his face. “What about you?”

“I don’t know,” Isran admitted. “I never expected to see the end of the fight in sight.”

The ex-assassin paused, expression uncertain. “Would you like to come with me? The Fighters’ Guild could use a competent trainer in heavy armour.”

“I… Maybe I could do that. The training, not coming with you. Wait, I mean I can do that too for certain!” Isran babbled everything out as he realised he might have been telling Irkand it was over. They’d done that once, driven apart by diverging loyalties, and he’d never known how lonely he was until Irkand had gone.

Irkand reached out and Isran took his hand.

“I could do that. It would be good to go home… with you.”

…

“The dawn is so…”

“Beautiful?” Sorine slipped her hand into Serana’s. “Wait until you see a sunset over the sea.”

Falion smiled as he cleaned up the detritus of the ritual. Serana decided not to ask where he’d gotten the filled black soul gem from; it might be someone she’d known. “I think you’ll find that your senses will be… not keener, but broadened. Food will have savour, you’ll see many more colours and scents will intoxicate you.”

“I’m beginning to understand.” Even the swamps of Hjaalmarch had more than brackish water; there was snowberry and salt from the sea and…

She understood now why Aurelia had greeted every sunrise and sunset by just standing there and breathing.

In the shadows, Valerica spoke. “If you change your mind, Serana…”

“I know,” Serana said over her shoulder. “But I never got a chance to live. Let me have this, Mother. We’ve neutralised the prophecy, at least.”

“Well, _I’m_ not likely to give Harkon the blood,” Valerica noted. “But there are other Daughters of Coldharbour out there.”

“And when we’re done with the bow, it’ll be returned to Auri-El’s Chantry,” Sorine assured Valerica. “So the danger will be averted.”

“I hope so.” Valerica sighed. “I will see you after the battle.”

The Vampire Lord left and Falion shook his head. “She’ll never understand, because she never valued her mortality in the first place.”

“Speaking of mortality, I could use something to eat,” Serana said. “I think I’m hungry.”

That meal was the greatest she ever had, even if it was sour flatbread, snowberry preserves and crumbling goat’s cheese washed down with milk. Angi, Falion’s ward and apprentice, chattered about childish things as they ate and it was… homely. Harkon’s breakfast table had never been like that.

As they left Morthal, Serana took Sorine’s hand. She could do homely. It would be… home.


	18. Kindred Judgement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and mentions of torture, rape/non-con, imprisonment, slavery and massacre. It’s over, folks!

The first Harkon knew everything had gone wrong was when Orthjolf, his most trusted vassal, hadn’t returned with Serana and Auriel’s Bow. He hadn’t returned at all and of all the losses he’d sustained over the past few months, this had hit the hardest. Even before his ascension, Orthjolf had been his huscarl. When Valerica had betrayed him and turned their daughter against him, Orthjolf had been loyal.

One of the long-distance scouts he’d posted returned two days after Orthjolf’s departure, her expression grim. “Serana has joined this Dawnguard Hestla warned you about,” Fura said tightly. “More to the point… they got the Elder Scrolls with the aid of the Last Dragonborn – and _she’s_ a Champion of Dibella. They also have Dawnbreaker with them.”

Harkon forgot himself enough to swear vilely. “How did they figure out our plans?”

“I’ve made a study of our known adversaries,” Hestla, Fura’s consort and Harkon’s secondary warleader, remarked. “Do you remember what happened to Balgeir?”

“He got himself killed. Yes, I know. What’s the point?” Harkon growled. He wanted to vent his spleen on something – anything.

“He was slain by Irkand Aurelius, an assassin with who serves Arkay,” Hestla answered bluntly. “Irkand joined forces with Isran, that Redguard who wiped out the N’chakra of Hammerfell. They say Irkand was a Blade, which is to say he comes from generations of Akaviri assassin training. I warned you of them, Harkon, and you didn’t-“

Harkon grabbed Hestla by the throat. “I do not need to hear ‘I told you so’ from you.”

He threw her away. “Tell the others to prepare defences. We must assume the Dawnguard will be here soon.”

He didn’t realise she and Fura had left until three days later.

**_“Let them go. Let the weak cull themselves,”_** Molag Bal advised. **_“You just need the blood and the bow to fulfil the prophecy.”_**

So Harkon prepared his defences, stationed scouts and gargoyles around the island, and awaited the frontal assault that the Dawnguard would surely launch. He meditated in the Blood Chapel, bathing himself in the glorious power of Molag Bal’s gift. Castle Volkihar was strong; it could survive anything thrown at it.

He didn’t count on the resourcefulness of the Dawnguard. The expected siege engines arrived but they were Dwemer automatons, remote controlled by some new magic, and when his gargoyles were engaged the ground forces slipped in through Valerica’s wing at the height of noon.

Harkon awoke from torpor to be struck by the sound of fire and chaos. He assumed his Vampire Lord form and flew into the Great Hall where his court feasted.

“You dare enter my home!” he roared. “Face the wrath of Harkon and the darkness of Molag Bal!”

He doused every flame and light in the place, plunging it into blackest shadow.

“Oh good,” observed a wheezing tenor with the cultured accents of a Cyrod nobleman. “I thought I was just along for moral support.”

Harkon, who could see shadows darker than black, laughed scornfully. “I might leave you for last, foolish mortal.”

“I _do_ believe Balgeir said something similar.” A robed shadow, patched with the shiny seams of burn scars, broke a pair of pottery jars at his feet that released a kind of mist. “Make your peace with your unholy maker, because you’ll be explaining yourself to him soon enough.”

Harkon laughed and joined battle.

The ‘mist’ was silver dust and something else that made it hard for a vampire to breathe and burned the flesh. Harkon was wheezing nearly as much as the tenor and it hurt to remain in the air, so he landed and began to lash out with claws, catching flesh and making it cry out in pain.

Something flashed past him, a silver dart that left burning pain in its wake, and the wielder was as hard to catch as a shadow. Harkon swung around wildly, giving into his blood rage, but caught only air. By the thirteenth cut, he was staggering with blood loss.

Something loomed up behind him and when he spun to confront it, a warhammer caught him in the side. Helplessly, he watched the weapon fall inexorably towards his face… and woke up in hell.

…

“That. Stunt. Nearly. Got. You. Killed!”

Gunmar had to clutch Agmaer, both of them were laughing so hard at Isran yelling at Irkand, who very nearly gave himself a heart attack by duelling Harkon one-on-one. If it wasn’t for Dexion’s knowledge of Restoration, they could have lost him. But watching Isran act like a worried husband was so out of character for the gruff Redguard that they couldn’t help but laugh.

The shadows had died with Harkon, revealing the wreckage of the battle. Valerica and her people would have quite the cleaning job on their hands when they came to take possession of the place. But Harkon’s court had been minimal, one of the thralls revealing several of his vassals had fled for the mainland, all of them forswearing the fool prophecy. Gunmar would take his victories as he found them, for the Dawnguard would hunt them down if they revealed themselves in Skyrim.

A red dragon landed on the roof, carrying an attractive brunette in plum and cream robes. “I’ll handle the chapel to Molag Bal,” the Dragonborn said, sliding off and stepping down on a series of technically illegal Levitation disks to the ground. Like anyone would take her to task. “Does anyone need healing?”

“Irkand might need a little more by the time Isran’s done with him,” laughed Gunmar. “He decided to take on Harkon by himself and nearly got himself killed.”

Aurelia rolled her eyes. “That’s my uncle for you. I’ll leave him to Isran. He might actually listen to him.”

She entered the chapel and all sorts of interesting noises came from there as she purged it with fire and a Dragonborn’s Voice. If the cursing was anything to go by, Molag Bal was calling her all sorts of unpleasant names.

They looted the place of anything portable and valuable by sunset, when Valerica and a couple of merish vampires arrived. “I’m surprised you left me the castle stones,” the woman observed.

“If it were up to me, I’d be leaving nothing,” Isran said flatly. “But I’m going to choose my battles. Harkon is done for and the prophecy is over. Don’t piss us off and we’ll leave you alone.”

“As you can tell, Isran’s tact and diplomacy are renowned throughout Tamriel,” Serana said dryly. “Second only to Irkand’s.”

Aurelia actually laughed.

“I intend to focus on my studies and passing on my knowledge to successive generations,” Valerica said mildly. “We have official sanction from the College of Whispers and the Conclave of Matriarchs to do so. Feran and Ronthil were kind enough to agree to assist me.”

“I see you’ve found a new Daedric patron,” Aurelia observed cryptically.

“And I see you saved me the trouble of removing that altar,” Valerica answered.

“I’m already on Molag Bal’s shit list. What’s another cleansed chapel?” Aurelia’s hands glowed as she cast Levitation. “Live in peace and you’ll not be troubled, Valerica. But the Temple of Dibella – and I – will be watching you.”

“I could almost like that woman,” Valerica said as the Dragonborn paused to farewell her uncle, then climbed back onto the red dragon’s back and flew away. “Serana…”

“I’ll be at Sky Haven Temple or Winterhold if you need me,” the now-human woman said. “But I need time to myself, Mother. I helped kill my father today and I need to process that.”

She took Sorine’s hand and walked out. Taking the cue, the other members of the Dawnguard bagged their loot and headed for the door.

“Uh, sorry about the door,” Gunmar coughed. “The trolls and the Dwemer automatons got a little excited.”

Valerica laughed. “No matter. It’ll give our apprentices something to do.”

Gunmar turned for the door. It was time to go home. They’d won.

The war was done. Now it was time to rebuild.


End file.
